Amarth Naur
by Rebell
Summary: After the War of the Ring, life is supposed to be all roses and peaceful walks. But for our favourite elf, roses only hide the bees, and peaceful walks are in short supply.
1. Peace Offerings

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters... or the places... no, not the _lembas _either...(sobs) that last one always gets me...

**AN: **RRRAWWWRRRR!! I LIVE! Today happens to be my sixteenth birthday, so I have chosen to follow the hobbit birthday traditions, in which the birthday hobbit gives everyone _else _a present!

My present to you is the beginning of my newest fic, _Amarth Naur _(I dare you to find out what it means... go on, if you guess it, I'll send you some birthday cake! You know you want some...).

I hope you all enjoy this first chappy!

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The elf reached up to stroke the nose of the white stallion. "I am sorry, _mellon-nin, _but you may not come this time."

The stallion nickered and nudged the elf's shoulder. He wanted very much to go somewhere with his friend. He had not been left behind since he had met the elf, and he did not understand why he wasn't allowed to go. It was only a little cut!

But his friend and master was taking no chances, and Arod watched mournfully as Legolas turned away to check on the mare he would be riding in the stallion's stead. Arod did not particularly like the mare in question, she tended to be skittish at things no sane horse would look twice at.

Legolas caught the sad look and slipped Arod another carrot before mounting the mare, whose name was Celfron. Truth be told, he thought she was rather jumpy as well; she had already thrown several elves this year. But other than that one failing, she was very sweet, and he was confident that he would not be caught unaware.

He clucked with his tongue and she obediently moved into a trot. The stables were located quite near the entrance to Eryn Lasgalen, so it was not even five minutes later when he paused to wait for the guards to open the gates. As he sat there, eyeing the trees, a sort of shudder ran up his spine.

Quite suddenly, he was struck by an idea that this journey was a bad idea. He was urged by an unseen force to turn around, return the skittish Celfron to the elves in the stable and content himself training the younger elves and going on patrols. And when Arod's leg was healed, he could go back to Ithilien and continue his work there.

But Aragorn was waiting in Gondor, along with Arwen and their new-born son. Aragorn had sent a message to Legolas the day Eldarion was born, urging the elf to come and visit. He desperately wanted Legolas with him and his family at this important time.

Of course, it didn't take so many words to convince the elf to come. He had not seen Aragorn since the end of the war, which had been nearly five years ago. Perhaps not so long in the elvish sense of time, or even Aragorn's, but five years was long indeed in the eyes of two friends. True, Ithilien was located quite near Minas Tirith, but problems and complications arose with startking regularity, and somehow Legolas never found himself with enough time to ride to the White City. Not only that, but his father wanted to see him often as well, so the prince was kept busy with making the long commute between the two places.

It was high time he went to see his friend, and Eldarion's birth seemed the perfect opportunity to escape his roles as lord of Ilthilien, and prince of Eryn Lasgalen for several months.

So he shook away the strange feelings that compelled him to stay, and coaxed Celfron into a trot. He left the realm of Eryn Lasgalen without looking back.

Once he was out of sight, the strange feeling passed, and his thoughts returned to the king and queen and their new child. And he hoped desperately that he wasn't going to be expected to hold it. He was not really a child person, or so he told himself.

But he hadn't had any experience, that was the real problem. He was one of the youngest elves, one of the last born once his people had decided that having children in the increasingly dark times was no longer a good idea. He had no younger brothers or sisters, had never, in fact, seen a child younger than five.

That child happened to be Aragorn, then known as Estel. It had taken some time even then for the two to grow comfortable together. He couldn't begin to imagine trying to befriend an infant. He had sudden images of Eldarion spitting up on him and perhaps worst of all, himself being expected to change the diaper.

As the days began to pass, for it took more than a fortnight to reach the White City, Legolas began to realize just how little he knew about children. How long did it take before they graduated from diapers anyway? Weeks? Months? Years? By the time he arrived at Minas Tirith, Eldarion would be a little more than a month old. Would he be finished with the diapers by then?

Of course, he didn't spend the entire time pondering the mysteries of babies. More than once, he was delayed because Celfron had shied from some non-existent threat, or even her own shadow. It so happened, more often than he would like to admit, he spent quite a fair amount of time on his back after being thrown off. But he could never find it in his heart to scold the mare, she was always watching him with big sad dark eyes as he got to his feet, as if to say, _I did not mean to. I thought there was a wildcat under those leaves! _

At one point, he wondered if it was possible for a horse to have a runaway imagination.

Nearly two weeks afterwards, the landscape began to change. He had skirted the southern edge of Eryn Lasgalen, crossed the Brown Lands, left the Falls of Rauros far behind, skirted the edges of the Dead Marshes, and was beginning to enter the long flat stretch that held Minas Tirith. He could make out the city far to the south, a white gleam against the gray of the mountains.

But of course elf eyes can see much farther than those of men, and Legolas knew that he would not reach the city until late the next day, perhaps even the day after,depending on the speed they would travel. And as the morning began to ease into midday, the elf began to wonder about the infant once more.

He could not rightly explain why he was so worried about meeting Eldarion. Perhaps he was nervous that the baby would not like him. He didn't like the idea of picking up the baby only to have Eldarion burst out in tears. Or, and this struck him as particularly frightening, what if he somehow hurt the child? O, that thought opened up so many more doors!

He whiled away nearly the entire day preoccupied with these thoughts. At times, he reached into his pack and removed a thick chunk of wood and whittled away at it, thinking to offer it to the child in a deal not to exchange any bodily fluids. Then realizing that there was no way that Eldarion would understand this 'peace offering', he tucked it away again.

This happened quite a bit, before he at last realized how silly he was being. The shadows were beginning to lengthen, and Celfron was still full of energy. The vague path he was following currently led him through grassy fields with sparse underbrush.

Deciding there was no harm, he whispered to the mare, who leaped forward, eager to run across the wide open spaces. Her dusky mane flowed back, tickling his face as he flattened himself along her back. It mingled with his own hair, dark chocolate against shining gold. The setting sun's last ray of light struck the pair, softening their edges until they seemed a single being, flying across the fields to a destination only they could see.

It should have inspired a sense of awe or wonder, but to the beings following at a safe distance, it only inspired them to feel a deep anger welling up within them.

They would attack when the elf stopped to rest.

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Legolas let Celfron run well into the night, using the moonlight to guide them. Only when the mare began to shy from the shadows of low bushes and trees did he slow her gallop and begin to search for a place to stop for the night.

He wanted to reach Minas Tirith by the next afternoon, and with the moonlight gallop, he knew that it was likely he would arrive shortly after midday.

The elf pulled Celfron to a halt in a tiny copse. A small pond lay outside the trees, fresh from the rain the night before. He dismounted, pleased to be doing so of his own accord, and let the mare take a long drink. He walked around the copse, letting his fingers brush the trunks. The trees were silent, unaccustomed to an elf's presence. Pausing before a especially quiet pine, Legolas reached for the tree's consciousness.

All was quiet at first, but then a flood of alarm washed over the elf. He disentangled himself from the tree's mind, reaching for his knives. He pulled them from their respective sheaths and spun, searching for what had alerted the tree. Adrenaline pumped through his body, and every nerve was tense as a hobbit who had no prospect of supper.

His sharp ears picked up the sound of heavy breathing from three different sides. He carefully trained his attention on the remaining side, reasoning that if his attackers were foolish enough to allow themselves to be so noisy, they would be foolish enough to think he was denser than they were.

They came at him in a reasonably well-thought-out rush, but they were no rangers. He heard them as soon as they started to move.

He spun to the left, bringing his blades up in a sharp arc and catching the man's sword between them. He swung his arms about, forcing the man to do the same, and his foot snapped out to slam the man in the stomach. The man doubled over, coughing and clutching his abdomen.

The elf quick-stepped to the side and ducked. A sword whistled over his head, and he struck low with his right hand, hamstringing the second attacker. But that left him in a low position, at a bad advantage against the third and final attacker.

Much to Legolas's dismay, this last was much better trained than his comrades. He was hard-pressed to keep the blade away from his body, and getting back to his feet took nearly thirty exhausting seconds. By the time they were on even footing again, Legolas was beginning to tire, and his arms were beginning to tingle from the man's heavy blows.

The wood-elf took a risky chance, feinting ahead and sweeping out wide with both knives, hoping to draw the man's attention upward so that he could strike with his foot again. But the man wasn't fooled, instead executing a feint of his own.

His sword caught Legolas across the chest, opening a long shallow cut from one side to the other. The elf hissed in pain and staggered back, one knife dropping to the ground and the hand going to his chest. The man grinned ferally and lifted his sword high.

Quick as a flash, Legolas's booted foot snapped up, catching the man in the groin. The smile quickly disappeared, and the sword clattered to the ground.

Unwilling to kill the man, the elf instead struck him with the hilt of his knife and left him sprawled on the ground.

With a grimace of pain, Legolas scooped up his knife and made for Celfron. He would not stay here and wait to be attacked again. Neither did he want to wait for his attackers to regain conciousness and try to finish what they had started.

His chest burning painfully with every motion, he mounted the mare and edged her into a trot. He searched through one of the saddlebags and came up with a roll of bandages. Snorting in a very un-elegant manner he recalled his father's voice as the king handed his son the roll.

"Don't you dare try to tell me that nothing will happen, _ion-nin_. Centuries of experience should tell you that something _will _go wrong if you do not take this. Humor me."

"Well _ada_," Legolas said to himself ruefully, "This is one of those times where you happen to be wrong... And I wish you weren't."

Uneasily looking about, he halted Celfron and dismounted. He whispered some soothing words into her ear and stepped away to inspect the cut. Stripping off the bloody tunic and carefully inspecting the wound, he saw that it was not deep, and he suspected that if he wrapped it well enough, it would escape Aragorns's notice.

He did _not _want to be fussed over for hours because of a simple scratch.

So he bandaged it best as he could, and when he pulled a fresh tunic over his head, not a one would guess that he had been injured in the scuffle.

He rode all through the night, only slowing to a walk when the moon passed behind clouds and made it difficult to see. He had forded the Entwash the previous day, and now he kept near the banks so as not to lose his way in the dark. He could vaguely see an orange glow in the distance that he knew to be the torches of Minas Tirith, and as the night wore on, it grew clear that he would reach it in a matter of hours.

By the time the sun peeked over the lip of the mountains, both horse and rider were exhausted, yet both wanted nothing more than to reach the blasted city.

Admittedly, they both wanted it for very different reasons: Celfron to rest in a comfortable stable with apples and cool water, and Legolas to see Aragorn and finally be rid of the feeling that he was being watched.

Even Celfron knew the end of the journey was near, and when she saw the gates, she broke into a tired but happy canter.

The gates were open by the time the companions reached them, and Legolas was only detained a moment by the guards. Upon learning that the visitor to the city was none other than Prince Legolas, the way was cleared instantly.

Up and up they went, all the way to the sixth tier of the great city. There, Legolas left Celfron in the capable hands of the stable grooms. One of the grooms opened his mouth, most likely to scold this strange elf for running his mount so ragged; but on looking at the elf a second time and realizing he was just as tired, wisely decided to keep his mouth shut.

Legolas continued on, easing his way through the many people just beginning their day. He envied them their good night's rest. Thinking of the three men he had left unconcious, his expression soured. Even _they _had gotten a better rest than he! Granted, it was because they were out cold, but still...

His feet carried him along while his mind was still trying to understand why he still felt unsettled. Every so often, the hair on the back of his neck would rise, and he would look around, trying to catch someone staring at him.

But there were too many people about, even as he reached the seventh tier, for him to be able to tell if someone was following him.

This was certainly not the way he'd imagined entering the White City. He had expected to be well-rested, full of _lembas_, and not quite so... frazzled. But here he was, dead on his feet, beginning to feel the edge of hunger, and looking all in all... rather frazzled.

He could just imagine the look on his father's face.

"Legolas!"

The elf's head snapped up, and he felt all drowsiness disappear. Aragorn was running towards him, clad in a wine colored shirt and soft trousers. His hair was caught back in a short, loose tail, and he wore ankle high boots. He looked as he had when he had been growing up in Imladris: healthy, happy, and above all, content.

The two embraced and stepped away, each looking the other up and down. "You have a beard now," Legolas observed, slipping into his native tongue as was habit around Aragorn.

The king of Gondor raised a hand to his chin self–conciously. "Yes, and Arwen hasn't said anything against it, so it stays."

"Because anything Arwen says, goes," Legolas agreed. He knew full well that if Arwen even hinted at something about Aragorn's appearance, the king would change it instantly. In their younger days, Legolas had teased him about Arwen being the _real _man in the relationship, but they both knew it was a mark of Aradorn's love for her.

"Yes indeed." Aragorn slung his arm around Legolas's shoulders. "_Mellon-nin, _we have so much to talk about, so much to catch up on! Letters just don't do as well as a good conversation, do they? Come, Arwen is waiting for you as well!"

Laughing at Aragorn's exuberance (and in secret relief that Aragorn had not noticed anything _odd _about the unusually stiff way he held himself), Legolas allowed himself to be led away.

Only when they were outside the king and queen's private chambers did Legolas suddenly realize that Eldarion was also undoubtedly waiting... and that he had forgotten his peace offering in his saddlebag.

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**AN: **There we are! Chapter One... ohhhh, I'm SO excited to be writing again!

Everybody, wish me luck on my driver's test, especially parallel parking, which must have been invented by an idiot... who parallel parks in a town of three thousand anyways??

Oh, and don't you dare think Legolas is out of trouble yet... those measly attackers are just the beginning!


	2. A Bit of Trust

**Disclaimer: **If you actually think I'm writing this for money, or you think I'm Tolkien, I think you might need to have a little trip to see the little men with the white coats. :)

**AN: **Ahhh... I see that I've gone right ahead and gotten back into my habit of semi-neurotic updates... I do know that I'll never attempt two at the same time again, so hopefully I'll settle into a rhythm!

All right y'all! I'm completely ashamed at how horrid my first chappy was in terms of spelling errors and other things. I've gone back and replaced the contents with a better spelled chappy! I think one paragraph was changed, but it's nothing important! Also, I'm darned sure that I got a couple canon facts somewhat... wrong. Let me know if you spot any, because I really want this to be true to Tolkien's world! Thanks guys!

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Aragorn paused before opening the door and looked Legolas up and down critically. The elf winced inwardly, realizing that the ever-perceptive human had realized he was injured. _Honestly, tis only a scratch! _He thought, preparing to defend himself.

Instead, Aragorn reached out and tucked Legolas's blonde hair behind the elf's shoulder. 'One must be careful when they are holding Eldarion. He likes to pull hair."

Legolas must have looked astounded, because the king laughed and told him that it was quite normal for young children to do.

Managing to pull himself together before Aragorn discerned the true source of his amazement, Legolas asked, "So I am to hold him then?"

"Of course!" Aragorn exclaimed. "Should you not? Now, _mellon-nin_, you do not truly believe that we wouldn't allow it, do you?" Eying his longtime friend, Aragorn quickly reconsidered his opinion. "You're nervous, aren't you!" At Legolas's rather abashed look, the man began to snicker. "There's nothing to be frightened of! He's harmless! And I doubt you'd manage to do anything to make him cry, he's very agreeable. Now come, Arwen wants to see you too!"

He pushed open the ornate door and entered. Legolas remained in the corridor for several seconds, straightening his clothes and gathering his courage; despite Aragorn's reassurances, he still didn't know quite what to expect.

Wishing violently for his peace offering, he entered the room on silent feet. Arwen was sitting in a cherrywood rocking chair, long dark hair bound into a loose bun and contained in a golden bit of net. It matched her gown, which was a deep burgundy with gold embroidery. It was a simple enough article, but then, Arwen never needed elaborate clothing and jewels to be beautiful.

She rose upon seeing Legolas. "You are lovely as ever, milady," Legolas said, dipping into a stiff bow. She accepted this with a slight nod, then laughed and caught the other elf up in an embrace.

"It has been years, Legolas Greenleaf!" she said, and shook a playful finger at him.

"Too long," the elf replied. "I shall never again let so much time go by."

A gurgle interrupted their reunion, and Arwen turned her attention to a cradle in the corner. It was also made of cherrywood, with ivy and roses carved along the sides, and a star upon the headboard. A trailing bit of deep brown blanket was visible from where Legolas stood.

The queen of Gondor bent over the cradle and reached inside. When she straighted, she held a little bundle wrapped in a light cloth. Legolas started; he simply hadn't expected the little one to be so _small. _Both Aragorn and Arwen were alternately looking happily at their child and eying Legolas (who looked both fascinated and frightened).

"Come Legolas!" Arwen said softly. "Come and see him!"

Steeling himself, the blonde stepped forward.

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"An elf?" The man slammed his fist against the table and the old wood creaked in agony. He glared at the two men across the room. One was leaning on a pair of crutches and the other had a whopping goose egg just above his right temple and that entire side of his face was blue and a reddish purple. Both recoiled as the man got to his feet and stared menacingly at them.

"You fools... attacked an elf? Have you gone absolutely mad?" The man pointed at his lackeys' injuries, and snorted. "It seems you have received your just rewards already. Where is your other partner in crime?"

The man with the bruised face spoke up reluctantly. "He is in the healing quarters. Several of his ribs are cracked."

"I would have thought better of you," the leader said. He tapped his broad jaw with a thick finger. "Going out of your way to attack one of the First Born!" he spat out the final words with an unhealthy dose of contempt. "They are not worth the time and effort. If that elf tells someone of importance, we will have the guards breathing down our necks. How are we to have a proper gang of highwaymen with Gondor's finest patrolling the roads?"

"We thought he would yield some interesting information... or a heavy purse. His saddlebags bore a royal insignia."

The thick fingers stopped tapping and began stroking the chin instead. "A _royal _insignia... There are very few elven kingdoms left in this land, and only one who regularly has business here in Minas Tirith." The fingers pointed at the door, and the two lackeys understood they were being dismissed.

As the door shut behind them, the man sat and let his cool mask drop. "Legolas Greenleaf. Now_ he_ would be worth robbing..."

Hilden rubbed his hands together gleefully. He loved a good challenge. He had tried to steal from the elf five years ago and had been thwarted in much the same way as his three comrades had been. That had been before he had risen to the top of their little band. His rear smarted as he thought of how the elf had sent him off.

He looked upon the elf's return as a chance to give some good and proper payback. But Hilden was clever enough to know that it would be near impossible to get anything away from the prince unless the elf (and every one around him) was suitably distracted. He leaned back and stroked his chin again, a sure sign to everyone who knew him that he was deep in thought.

After a time, a sly smile crept across his face.

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"He is so small!" Legolas whispered. He tentatively reached out to touch the child's hand, but his fingers stopped less than an inch away.

"All is well," Arwen assured him. She and her husband were smiling in amusement at the wood-elf's reluctance. "You cannot harm him and he is yet to fully awake. He will not be frightened."

Very gently, the tips of his fingers rested upon the child's brow. Eldarion shifted a little in his mother's arms but otherwise was undisturbed. Slightly encouraged, the blonde let his fingers trace the infant's jawline and touch his tiny hand.

Aragorn tried to hold a snicker and managed quite well. To see his oldest friend so nervous about such a little thing was something he thought he would never glimpse. The elf looked like a child himself, completely absorbed in the infant's seeming perfection. His eyes followed Eldarion's smallest movement, and he always paused immediately as if he had done something wrong. His mouth curved into a tentative smile as Eldarion opened his grey eyes and looked directly into Legolas's own blue orbs.

"He has your eyes Aragorn."

"That he does," the king agreed. "But he has something that I do not."

The elf understood instantly and carefully brushed a tuft of wispy baby-hair away from Eldarion's ear. It was indeed pointed, not so much as an elf's, but certainly more so than a human's.

Arwen suddenly got a very sly look upon her face, but Legolas was so intent on Eldarion that he missed it completely. Aragorn had left her side and come up behind the elf, employing all his rangerly talents to do so without being heard. In a swift movement, he caught the elf's arms with his hands and wrapped poor Legolas into a bear hug.

"Estel, what on Arda--" He broke off as Aragorn maneuvered his arms into a cradle and Arwen began to advance. "No Aragorn, I will _not--"_

"Shhh, you silly creature." Aragorn firmly kept the elf's arms in place as his wife began the delicate transfer.

Much to his credit, Legolas did not struggle at all for fear he would somehow hurt Eldarion. He _did _ however, manage a very nasty look over his shoulder.

"Do not tense," the king advised. "That makes him nervous. He will be afraid you will drop him."

"_I _am afraid I will drop him," came the predictable response. But it was said quietly, and by the time Eldarion was settled, he was silent and the nasty glances had ceased.

Aragorn stepped away and Legolas was left holding a very small, trusting infant. All by himself.

He swallowed hard, forced himself to relax. He looked down, meeting the gaze of Eldarion once more. The infant tilted his head, appraising this new person with calm curiosity. Several seconds passed (Legolas completely expecting the baby to burst out in tears) before the grey eyes closed and he turned toward the chest of the person who smelled so good.

The wood-elf smiled, completely won over. He ignored the little flashes of pain from his wound as Eldarion snuggled against his chest; he was convinced they would pass. Also, he was loathe to disturb the baby and possibly alert the perceptive Aragorn to his injury.

The king and queen of Gondor sat together on the overly-large chair, Legolas in the rocker recently vacated by Arwen. They passed the hours until dinner talking of the past five years as only friends can, sharing experiences that would never be recounted except for their closeness.

Over dinner, which was a large affair due to Legolas's arrival (much to the prince's dismay), Legolas was distracted by the many questions fired at him one after the other. Everyone wanted to know fresh news from Eryn Lasgalen and how things were progressing in Ithilien. The prince had patiently answered the endless rounds with the poise and grace that his father had instilled in him. After the first half hour though, he was incredibly tempted to just rise and leave the table. If he had not glimpsed Faramir and Eowyn across the hall and waved them over, he probably would have.

So it was a weary elf that retired to his chambers late that night, full of good food and ready to spend the night in a soft bed. Mere minutes after he had changed into a blue silken night tunic, his eyes were gently glazed in sleep.

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Shouting brought him back to awareness and he was on his feet in an instant. His reflexes had been honed from centuries of patrolling his homeland and awakening to peril when it was still known as Mirkwood, and he found that old habits never really go away. His night tunic was quickly replaced by the dark brown tunic he had planned to wear the next day, and he was outside in the cool night air ready for action in less than thirty seconds.

"What is going on?" he called to a passing guard.

"Fire!" the man yelled over his shoulder.

The elf felt a cold band of iron wrap around his chest. His immediate concern was of course for the royal family. But no, he realized quickly enough that the shouting was too close to possibly be from the King's House.

Breaking into a quick jog, he followed the guard as the man made his way through the gathering crowd. His mind whirled along many paths, although two stood out clearly. Firstly, the wood-elf knew well the destructive force that was fire. Eryn Lasgalen had suffered many forest fires, and he knew all too well how quickly fire could spread. But that brought him to the second path: how on Arda could Minas Tirith _burn? _It was carved from stone!

But no, that wasn't true at all. The walls around each level of the great city were stone, true enough, but the homes, shops and many other buildings were not.

His sensitive nose caught the distinctive scent of smoke rising from just outside the gate separating the fifth tier from the sixth. No hesitation marred his decision to see if he could be of help, it was simply the way he was. He was off in an instant, weaving his way delicately through the growing crowd.

The guards at the gate moved together, intent on following orders by not letting anyone past. Without breaking stride, Legolas simply placed one hand on each of the guards' shoulders and vaulted between them.

He raced along the street until his forward progress was near halted completely by the sheer amount of people. But it posed no problems for the keen-eyed elf. He could very clearly see flames licking along the wood of a medium sized merchant building. But he could also hear the faint cries for help above the crackling of the fire and the shouts of the crowd.

Once again, his decision was made quickly.

The crowd cried out in unison as an elf with long golden hair tied into a simple tail pushed through their midst and disappeared into the doorway of the burning shop.

And a man with a bruise along his right temple froze in surprise, his hand still outstretched to snatch the elf's belt and pull him away.

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Imagine the surprise of one Legolas Greenleaf when he found himself inside the building, breathing smoke and blinking away tears from his suddenly irritated eyes. His entrance hadn't been planned at all in his conscious mind. He didn't like fire; he loathed the destruction it caused and more often than not, the tears that followed in its wake.

It was hot inside, he could feel each breath of tainted air trying to sear his lungs. The smoke darkened the light, obscured even the brightest of flames in a shrouded blur. He knew he had to move quickly, for he was growing dizzy already, and he hadn't been inside for more than several seconds.

The prince prowled quickly through the rooms, ears guiding him to the source of the cries for help. He found them in a tiny room that served as a kitchen, a boy of about nine and who Legolas assumed to be his mother. The woman was silent, a tiny trickle of blood running down her forehead. The boy had been the one calling for assistance, but his voice was growing hoarse.

Legolas entered and kneeled by the pair. "I will not harm you," he assured the boy, who looked absolutely terrified at the sudden appearance of such an unexpected savior. "I only wish to escort you to a safe place."

The little boy paused for a second (a second too long to Legolas, whose lungs were burning more fiercely than ever), and then nodded, brown eyes wide with terror. He reached up to grasp the elf's proffered hand, and the woman quietly followed her son's lead.

Legolas pulled them close, one under each arm. "We must be quick. I do not know how much longer this building will remain upright."

And true to the wood-elf's luck, the ceiling chose that moment to shudder, raining bits of fiery wooden beams down upon them. They all looked up just in time to see a full size beam give way and begin to plummet directly towards their heads.

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**AN: **Hello again, yes it's my customary end note. I'd like to take this opportunity to plead for my life, especially to Alenor Peredhel and her deadly baseball bat. Sorry about the long wait... and the cliffy. (Well, the cliffy not so much :))

For anyone who's interested, I did indeed pass my driver's test, (woot!!) and I have successfully driven all over town without a single scratch on my mother's truck! Now the only thing left to do is to get a truck of my own!

We're off to a great start! Thanx and plenty of cake and ice cream go to the people who reviewed chappy 1! **PeppyPower, tsu, Elflingimp, ArodielTheElfOf Rohan, Tathren Lalaith, Alenor Peredhel, maneatingbananas, LadyLendariel, HauntedPast, lillypop, Nieriel Raina, Eye of Newt _and _Aimme.**

I love you all!


	3. Scoldings

**Disclaimer: **Although I have many secret aliases (if I told you who they were and what they were for, I'd have to kill you... haha) I do not have one claiming that I am Tolkien... hmmm, I should work on that...

**AN: **Hello everybody! It's the middle of Spring Break, which means I've been sleeping in everyday, and staying up till four am or later every night. (yesh, I'm a night-person, and the only drawbacks are that I can't play my music really loud! Lol)

So I am really happy with the way the second chappy turned out: not only were there no reports of mistakes (which I'm sure there are some around, you all were just being nice :)) but everyone also said it was much better that the first... AND the number of my reviews stayed constant! All around, I'm feeling more and more confident about this story. I promised some of you that I would update on Wednesday, and I always try and keep my promises, so here it is! (no matter what the ff update thing says... it's before midnight in MY timezone, so it still counts! Lol!)

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The woman screamed (the first real sign of life she had exhibited) as the first bits of wood struck her shoulders. Legolas placed his hands on the pairs' shoulders and shoved them forward. The boy stumbled almost instantly, sprawling onto a pile of rubble and struggling to regain his feet. His mother bent to help him, her own dark eyes still clouded with fear.

Legolas saw none of that.

As he had given the pair the push, he had braced himself to follow directly after them. But his left foot slipped, and he had to swiftly shift his balance to even stay on his feet. It didn't help him to escape the falling beam.

The wood struck him squarely across the shoulders, bringing him to his knees first and then fully onto his stomach. Smoke swirled upwards from the place he had been standing.

The woman and her son stared in shock and horror. It had happened so quickly, there had been no time to react. But the elf _had _reacted. And he had chosen to push them out of harm's way instead of leaping aside himself.

Tears began to appear in the little boy's eyes. They were not only a result from the smoke.

Legolas groaned as the black spots invading his vision began to recede. He was pinned beneath the beam and the fire was beginning to eat away at his tunic and sear the tender skin beneath. But he found that if he wriggled just so, there was room enough to slide out from the wood. His shoulders screamed in agony as he pulled himself forwards, and then again as he pushed himself to his feet.

He turned to look at the beam and realized its downward progress had been halted by a medium sized footstool. The legs of the stool had splintered under the tremendous weight, but it had somehow held. _Probably because it struck me first and I slowed it down, _he thought wryly.

The smoke intensified and Legolas took the cue. He reached out to the boy and woman once more, and this time they took his hands instantly. They began to run.

The exit from the building was not elegant or graceful in any way. They had nearly missed the door, and in the quick turn-about, they had tripped over a bit of debris: the home's final parting gift.

They all dropped to their knees, chests heaving, struggling to expel the smoke from their lungs and replace it with the sweetly pure outside air. Medics surrounded them, asking questions and peering into their eyes to be sure they had not suffered any serious injuries.

Legolas avoided them with the ease of long practice, shrugging them off and slipping away into the gathering crowds. Try as he might, he found that his lungs simply didn't want to reject the smoke entirely. His slender frame was continuously racked by coughing spasms. His throat was beginning to burn.

He slowed his pace, took a drink from a public fountain. The coughs began to subside, but he knew that if he tried to push himself any farther, they would start again with greater intensity. He sighed.

He wanted a bath and a nap.

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Early the next morning, Legolas was rudely awakened by pounding on his door.

The pounder did not wait for an invitation; the door flew open and Aragorn entered, huffily shutting the door before his guard could follow.

"Are you well?" the king asked breathlessly. His sharp grey eyes took in Legolas's appearance accusingly as he crossed the small room and sat on the edge of the bed. His friend's eyes were bloodshot and it appeared as if he hadn't slept well. Aragorn also noted that his friend winced as he moved his upper torso and arms.

"Oh, you infernal being!" Aragorn snapped. He pulled down the blankets and gently but insistently pulled Legolas to his feet. "You never went to the Houses of Healing, did you? No, of course you didn't," he added, almost to himself.

"I saw no need."

The hoarseness of the elf's normally smooth melodic voice only served to irritate the king of Gondor further. He did not see fit to answer such an absurd claim. Instead, he pulled the elf along out the door and down the street.

"Aragorn!" The elf sounded anguished and Aragorn instantly paused, afraid he was hurting his friend. "I am in my blessed _nightclothes_! Don't go pulling me down a public _street_!"

The king rolled his eyes and continued down the street, his hand firmly wrapped around Legolas's forearm. "Do not make a scene, and no one will notice. You wouldn't have to be in a street in your nightclothes if you had gone to be seen to _last night_!"

"You are angry with me?"

They arrived at the Houses of Healing then, and Aragorn pulled his friend inside and led him down the hall to a room. "Do not try to worm your way out of this by making me feel sorry for you!"

Legolas laughed, the bell-like sound slightly tainted with hoarseness. "Just like old times, right _mellon-nin_?"

"Right," Aragorn had to agree, entering an empty room and sitting Legolas down on the bed. "You cannot fool me. I know you far too well. As for being angry with you... no. When I awoke this morning and sat down to breakfast, what should I hear from my server but a story about a blonde elf who charged into a burning building? I knew immediately it was you." He turned to a cupboard and began taking out supplies.

"There were people inside," the elf argued as he reluctantly pulled off his night-tunic. "I couldn't just stand there."

"I know," Aragorn sighed. "You always have to do something. It is impossible for you to stand by and watch. You know, sometimes people come out all right even if the great and mighty Legolas isn't around to protect them."

"You wouldn't."

He turned and sucked in a breath at the sight of Legolas's bandaged torso. "Legolas..." He crossed the room and began to snip away the bandages. "Don't be sulky. You know very well what I mean."

Much of the gauze refused to peel away from the elf's skin. Dried blood acted as an adhesive... albeit, a very painful adhesive. The elf hissed through his teeth as Aragorn cautiously plucked and pulled around the cuts and burns. The night before, he had visited the baths, despite a _very _odd look from the attendant who had been awakened from his doze. He had been as careful as he could, but he was beginning to think that Aragorn had a point about going to the Houses of Healing.

After all, it would have been the middle of the night. Aragorn would have been deeply asleep and none the wiser. He would have to remember that in the future.

There was of course the long cut across his chest that Aragorn instantly recognized for what it was. "A knife? A _knife _wound? Would you care to explain to me how you manage to get a knife wound in a burning building?"

Legolas shifted, wondering how far he would get if he chose to run. He decided against it, knowing that the tongue-lashing he was about to receive would only worsen if he decided to flee. "I received it the night before I arrived. I was attacked about twelve miles to the north. Tis nothing, I sent them off far more injured than myself."

He shrank a little as Aragorn proceeded to go on a verbal rampage.

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By the time the king had ended his first scolding, the knife wound had been properly seen to and he had already turned his attention to the elf's back. Bruises marred the skin from one shoulder to the other and were so tender that it hurt when Aragorn barely brushed salve across the skin. There was also a motley collection of burn-blisters, most no larger than a silver coin. Aggravated red skin showed wherever the purple bruises did not.

"You, _mellon-nin_, are a mess." Aragorn proclaimed, finishing his salve work and beginning to wrap bandages around the elf's shoulders.

"I know. But I have you to clean me up."

"You won't have me around for long if you insist on worrying me to death."

"I don't mean to."

Aragorn's brow creased. Legolas was acting sulky. The short answers and the quips were hiding something. He finished wrapping and sat down next to his friend. "Something is wrong, Legolas. What is it?"

Legolas looked up, blue eyes sad. "I cannot..." He paused and looked away. Aragorn lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, careful not to let too much weight drop onto the tender skin. The elf still smelled faintly of smoke. He waited for a revelation.

"I cannot believe that you dragged me all the way down here in my _nightclothes_!"

Aragorn took a pillow and began to playfully beat Legolas round the head with it. The elf laughed, pleased that his ploy had worked. He stood and made his way out of the room, Aragorn close behind. He had diverted Aragorn's attention from his injuries. He had escaped without another scolding.

He thanked the Valar for small mercies.

Aragorn left his friend in his room after securing a promise that Legolas would rest and drink tea to soothe his throat. He strolled along, mind lingering on the elf. It was wonderful to see him again; five years was really too long. And yet, before he even entered the city, trouble was afoot. Attacked by highwaymen! He shook his head in fond bemusement. Only Legolas...

As for the fire however, it still puzzled him. According to the young man who served him his breakfast, the building that had burned belonged to a widower and her son, who ran a candle-shop in the front rooms. There was plenty of opportunity there for a fire to start, and he didn't really see why his attention kept returning to it. He didn't believe that anything malicious was at work here. A candle had been knocked over with disastrous results. That was it.

So why did he feel so unsettled?

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Hilden glared at the table. He was sorely tempted to pound on it again, not only because it made him feel better, but because it made him look even more furious to his cohorts than he was. He was a melodramatic sort, and he enjoyed exaggerating everything. But no one else had to know that.

And besides, he thought that if his fist made contact with the old wood once more, the table would collapse and he wouldn't have a place to put his ale.

"It cost me two week's salary to ensure that the blasted fire would happen! All for nothing! Jorn," he pointed accusingly at the man with the bruised face, "why didn't you snatch him sooner? Your hesitation was the reason we have nothing to show for our efforts!"

"I had just barely reached him when he went into the fire," Jorn defended himself. "I had my hand out to pull him away, and he just ran straight at the flames! It's not my fault he wants to die an early death!"

"Always the heroic one," Hilden mused. In actuality, the leader of the outlaws knew next to nothing about the blonde prince. He knew that Legolas was closely tied to both Ithilien and Mirkwood in ways of leadership, and that he was unerringly accurate with both knives and a bow.

The bow in particular. His face twisted as he thought back to that day five years ago. The elf had been leaving Gondor to return to Mirkwood, and Hilden and his cohorts had made the grave mistake of trying to appropriate the elf of his belongings.

The quartet had quickly discovered just how well the seemingly-frail elf could use his knives. Hilden had been the last one standing, had in fact just been about to charge when the elf dropped his blades and swung his bow from his back with swift fluidity. An arrow had embedded itself in the tree immediately to his right, and another arrow was nocked and ready before he had even registered the first.

The elf had said, "I suggest that you seriously rethink your course in life."

Hilden had turned and run. And that blasted elf had put an arrow into his rear.

He hadn't been able to sit properly for weeks.

Jorn watched, fascinated as Hilden's face began to turn red. His leader was entertaining at times. Good for stories... good for a few laughs, especially when he'd been into the ale. And occasionally, he was even good for a decent plan.

But it was getting old. Jorn longed for something better. More power. More money. Just... more.

While on missions, he made his own plans. His life was going to get better. Drastically. He just had to wait.

Hilden though, was blissfully unaware. There was nothing running through his mind except what he wanted to do to that elf. He may have been a relatively easy-going man, but he did not take kindly to being made fun of.

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**AN: **Me again! (cackles as readers groan) Well, I burnt the midnight oil to get this chappy up and running! See, I _am _going to update faster because I have no other stories to work on!

Just in case any of you are interested, Legolas is staying on the sixth tier of Minas Tirith in the lodgings near the stables. The Houses of Healing are on the same level just to the south. Aragorn and Arwen's quarters (chambers, whatever you wanna call 'em) are in The King's House on the seventh tier. The background of Minas Tirith is FASCINATING! See, I'm trying really hard to get everything right!

Thanks, cookies, and plenty of gobstoppers go to everyone who reviewed chappy two: **Mythical Creature, PeppyPower, Tsu, Eye of Newt, Aimme, Tathren Lalaith, ArodieltheElfofRohan, Verity Kindle, kerigan, invisigoth3, **and OF COURSE **Alenor Peredhel. **

Thank you thank you thank you!


	4. Below the Belt

**Disclaimer: **I own.. eh... gee, what DO I own? (thinks for several seconds) huh... guess I don't own anything... That includes these characters, so all the lawyers lurking under my windows need to go away now... They're giving me nightmares.

**AN: **Well.. this certainly took longer than i had expected it to! Standard apologies go here: I'm SOOOO SORRY! Standard begging for my life goes here: Please don't throw pointy things at me! Or stalk me with blunt objects! Actually. Just stay away from me altogether unless you have presents... And standard lame excuses go here: Soccer practice every day and final exams ate up my time! But since SCHOOL IS NOW OUT! I'll have more time to write this! Maybe I'll be done by the end of the summer! Haha, yeah right...

This chapter's for Alenor Peredhel who kept bugging me to update. I'm doing so now partly out of fear of her and her baseball bat.

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Slender fingers tapped nervously. A foot drummed out a steady, impatient rhythm. Blue eyes continually swept the room. A calculating mind swept through paths of escape, before being forcibly reminded of the reason he had to stay in this room.

One Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

Risking the wrath of Aragorn was dangerous enough under normal circumstances. But to dare to undertake an escape mission when Aragorn the healer had ordered rest was downright frightening. Legolas allowed himself a small smile. He should know... he had done it often enough in the past.

But he had not traveled all this way to just sit in a little room. It was a very nice little room, but still! He wanted to be out roaming the streets, interacting with people. For although he sometimes appeared aloof to strangers, he was in fact, a very social elf. He preferred company (any company) to being alone for long periods of time.

Finally deciding that Aragorn would not complain too much if he just walked and did not engage in any strenuous activity, he rose from the windowsill and retrieved his boots from the foot of the bed. His skin stretched and pulled painfully across his shoulders as he bent to pull first the left then the right one on. He winced slightly, but even the blisters spread liberally across his shoulders would not deter him from getting out of the blasted little room.

He exited the guest lodgings warily, expecting to be accosted by an armed guard with orders from the king, or worse, by Aragorn himself. However, to his great relief, there were no beings of any kind with sharp weapons present.

Almost unconsciously, he strolled down toward the next level, wondering what the home would look like in full daylight. The smell of smoke still hung in the air, but it was faint. He paused at the gate that bridged the two levels, but was waved through instantly by the guards surreptitiously monitoring the gate.

Anyone who wished could wander throughout the entire city of course, the guards were there mainly to keep an eye on things. Legolas nodded at them as he passed, and continued towards the smell of smoke.

As he got closer, his sensitive nose could pick out other scents, perhaps those of the candles lost in the fire. He smiled to himself as he smelled the sweet tang of rosehips, something usually found only on the western edges of the Misty Mountains. The woman must have paid handsomely for a handful with which to scent that particular candle.

He rounded the corner and stopped upon seeing the charred remains of the one-time lovely home. The widow stood in the centre of the wreckage, sifting through a mound of soot, hoping to find something of value. The expression of sorrow on her young face, lined although she couldn't have been older than thirty, and an early thirty at that, struck an all too familiar chord in the young elf. He had seen that look far too often for his taste.

He was so caught up in memories of past fires and tragedies, he never became aware of her son staring at him, no more than three yards away. The boy darted to his mothers side and took her arm, whispering into her ear. She looked up and caught sight of Legolas, standing quietly, a look of contemplation of his face.

She gathered her skirts and rose. The two of them approached the elf, stopping when he came to himself and noticed their shy advance. The woman smiled, a genuine though sad smile, and said, "Hello, sir. My name is Felia Thar, and this is my son, Juret."

Legolas brought his hand to his chest and responded in kind. "I am Legolas, milady. I am glad we could meet under... more normal circumstances."

Felia and Juret both smiled, and Juret said softly, "Thank you, Master Legolas, for helping us last night. We will forever be in your debt."

Legolas was about to decline any mentions of life-debts when he spotted a very familiar figure over Felia's shoulder. His blue eyes widened so dramatically, Felia started forward, sure that he would collapse in a dead faint.

"Master Legolas, are you well?"

Legolas hastily assured her that all was fine and that he was very sorry, but he had some rather pressing buisiness to attend to. He said goodbye with a promise to return, and made good his escape.

Confused, Felia and Juret turned, just in time to see King Aragorn himself staring after the departing elf with a comedic look of bewildered fury.

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Legolas walked as swiftly as he could without looking too foolish, yet fast enough (he hoped) to dissuade Aragorn from following in an... _unkingly _manner.

He descended through the city, reaching the third level before daring to stop and scrutinize the crowd to see if he'd been followed. No one seemed to be paying him any attention whatsoever, other than the usual cursory glance that was sent his way simply because he was one of the Firstborn.

He allowed himself to relax, pleased at his escape from the deadly wrath of a king (or worse, Aragorn) who had been defied. He would have to answer for it later of course, but until then he would enjoy his freedom. And to do that, he decided, he would venture down to the lowest level to the gates. The same gates that had been broken nearly five years ago during one of the final decisive battles of the War of the Ring. They had since been replaced by the dwarves, and Legolas, who hadn't gotten to see the new craftmanship upon his arrival, wanted to see if he could spot Gimli's mark.

The red-bearded dwarf had often prided himself and his dwarves on their work upon Minas Tirith's new gates, both in person and in his frequent letters. And always, he challenged Legolas to find his family's mark. It was hidden somewhere in the gates, although he would not say whether it was the inward or outward side.

Legolas intended to give the little hairy being's smugness a good strong push.

It did not take long before he arrived at the gates. He made small talk with the guards and explained why he was there. They laughed, especially as he imitated Gimli's gruff voice giving the challenge. These particular guards knew the dwarf quite well as it turned out, and they were more than happy to let Legolas inspect the gates.

Nearly two hours passed before he had finished inspecting the inside walls. With a smile, he called up to the guards that he would go outside and continue his search there. He also asked them to warn him if they spotted Aragorn. The last thing he wanted was to be accosted and dragged all the way through the entire city with Aragorn scolding him the whole time.

Shuddering at the thought, he stepped through the gates and let his eyes scan the gates, with all their intricacy and shining glory. The dwarves had used mithril instead of steel, and the warm mid-afternoon sun caressed the detailed carvings, making it appear softly lit from within at one angle and on fire from another.

And he found the mark within thirty seconds. Nestled inside a small indent in the runes was the unmistakable arrow that was Gimli's family mark. The same arrow could be found on the helm he had worn throughout the War.

Legolas smiled, anticipating the look on Gimli's face when he learned how quickly his little secret had been found.

It took a great amount of self-control not to snicker out loud.

Eying the position of the sun, he judged that there was enough time to walk along the walls for awhile before having to go back for dinner. He turned north, and instantly took note of the figures on horseback. They stood not more than five hundred feet away, and Legolas wondered briefly how they had managed to get there without his noticing. That thought was pushed out of his mind as all three of them slid their swords from their sheaths.

They were not the same three that had accosted him the night before his arrival. They were clad in armor with no markings, and all wore full face masks. He shifted slightly, planting his left foot firmly so that he could spin and flee in a split seconds notice.

He considered calling out to the guards, but even as the thought crossed his mind, the man in the center spurred his horse forward.

The elf spun and rushed for the gates. Quick as he was, he had barely reached them before the rider was upon him.

He entered and hurled himself to the left, landing hard and rolling. Sharp pain flared across his shoulders, making him gasp and causing his vision to swim. As he came back to his feet, he stumbled and nearly fell. Some of the blisters had probably been torn open, and he could feel the knife wound pulling, threatening to become an open wound again.

He cursed viciously under his breath and scrambled south towards the stairs that would take him to the top of the wall. He could hear the guards shouting in alarm, and more worryingly, the thunder of hooves behind him.

He knew instinctively that there was no way he could escape on foot. His eye fell upon a messenger, frozen in the act of saddling a long-legged mare. He changed course instantly, so quickly that he nearly fell again. His chest and back cried out in pain, but he ignored it, knowing he would have a single chance to get to the horse.

He was nearly there when one of the mounted men overtook him and stopped between him and his destination. The elf stopped, acutely aware that he held no weapons. A guard, one of the men he had jested with earlier, stepped in between the two adversaries, sword raised.

"I advise you to lay down your weapon and dismount," the soldier said coolly.

The man did not hesitate. He charged directly at the two. Legolas and the guard both dove in opposite directions. Legolas heard a sharp cry and he turned as the horse thundered past. The guard was on the ground, clutching at his neck. His sword lay forgotten in the dirt.

Legolas went to kneel by the man's side, but the mounted man was already turning his horse. Regretfully, the elf scooped up the sword and went for the messenger's horse. Four long strides and a leap placed him on the mare's back. She sidled and reared, but only slightly; Legolas was already whispering calming words to her in Elvish.

And then they were gone, blowing through the gates in a whirl of dirt and flashing legs. The three men were after them instantly.

The gates swiftly fell behind them, and Legolas could only hope that the guards would be getting their own horses and coming out to aid him. He did not fancy a fight on horseback with three opponents and a sword of all things.

He chanced a look back over his shoulder and saw with satisfaction that the men were some distance behind. He began to angle the mare to the right, hoping to circle back and come at them from the side. An open space would be far better for the kind of fight he expected, and there were no innocent people that could be hurt.

He eyed the sword and sighed inwardly. He had had some experience with the sword as a weapon, it was required of all warriors training in Eryn Lasgalen. The sword he held in particular was rather heavy, and that didn't surprise him, its previous owner had been rather burly. But the elf's arms were slender, and he would be forced to use both hands in order to keep it under control.

He took hold of the pommel with his other hand as well and was dismayed to find that this position pulled at the tender skin on his shoulders. Any sudden movements in the wrong direction would cause distracting, and therefore potentially deadly, pain.

It would have to do. There was nothing else to use, and even if he had his knives, he would have to get far closer to his opponent to use them, and he didn't relish that thought at all.

Using his knees, he steered the mare more sharply to the right, and then reversed and charged full speed straight back at his pursuers. They had been in the midst of adjusting to the right, and the direction change confused them enough so that he was in the middle of them before they realized it.

The elf's commandeered sword slashed left and right, accompanied by none of the usual graceful movements. Legolas was determined to use as little motions as possible in order to spare his shoulders from any additional strain. Two of the men fell from their saddles and barely avoided sticking themselves with their own swords. Their horses continued on in a sort of bewildered trot.

Legolas swung wide once more and turned back to face the last man. They eyed each other briefly, and then the man charged straight on, intending to face the elf in a joust of sorts.

The said elf held his mare still, watching calmly as the man bore down upon him. At the last possible second, Legolas ducked under the swing of the sword and fell from the mare's back. As he did so, his sword flashed out, cutting through the cinch of the saddle and slicing a shallow cut through the horse's side.

The horse shied, and the saddle slid about wildly, no longer secure. And the man, overbalanced because of his powerful swing that met no resistance, tumbled into the dirt and lay groaning.

Legolas had managed to land on his feet, and was watching the approach of the first two men warily. They had had a moment to recover from the glancing blows he had dealt them, and were ready for a fight.

The elf backed around, keeping his eyes on all three of them and wondering how on Arda he was to disable them without killing them.

He waved the sword back and forth, readjusting his grip on the blasted piece of weaponry. Now that they were all on the ground, he found himself wishing that he had just stayed in his room like Aragorn had told him to.

His shoulders throbbed, his chest was sore, and his arms were tired already from the sheer weight of the sword. Maybe he would have been better off letting Aragorn catch him at the scene of the fire. The image of himself being dragged through the city suddenly paled in comparison to the fight that still awaited him.

The two men moved in, one on each side, and he brought the sword up into a warning position. But his arms (the traitors) trembled, showing the men that the elf was perhaps more weak than he let on. They closed in, and the real fight began in earnest.

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The sound of clashing metal sounded across the field for the first time since the Battle of Pelennor Fields. This was a battle of a smaller scale, although no less desperate.

Legolas spun back and forth between his two adversaries, each time barely bringing the sword up in time to block. He was purely on the defensive, and he knew that if he could not dispatch one of the men, they would wear him down until he missed a parry.

Swiftly, far more quickly than either of the men expected the tired elf to move, he snapped his foot up once, twice, three times in rapid succession. It had worked the last time he had been ambushed, and it worked in this instance as well. The man dropped his sword and fell to the ground, his face a mask of pain.

"A bit below the belt!" his comrade roared and pressed in, sword moving in and out in rapid succession.

Legolas was hard pressed now; before, the two had been playing with him, now the man was furious. He was forced to move his own sword much faster than he would have liked in order to keep up with the onslaught. The throbbing in his shoulders had become a steady fiery ache that threatened to bring involuntary tears to his eyes.

His entire being focused into this fight, every fiber of him concentrating on the man in front of him. He brought his sword out and shifted most of his weight onto one foot. The man's eyes widened in recognition: this was what had happened right before his companion had dropped to the ground moaning.

He brought his sword down, intent on lopping the elf's foot off before it ever reached its intended target. But Legolas's foot never came up. Instead, he brought his sword around and struck the man in the face with the flat side of the blade. Blood flew from the man's nose, his eyes rolled up, and he dropped, unconscious.

Legolas sighed and lowered his sword. His muscles protested even this tiny action, so unaccustomed to that style of fighting. He turned wearily and noted that the guards had finally managed to procure horses and were riding out across the fields towards them.

It had taken them long enough, he thought dryly.

With a sigh, he imagined Aragorn's face when the king heard what his friend had gotten into that afternoon. And then cringing, he thought of the lecture he was sure to receive. He shut his eyes, trying to will the image away.

Distant shouts reached his ears: those of the guards, he noted without enthusiasm. What was there to yell about?

The guards continued their shouts, imploring the elf to turn around. From their vantage point, they had seen one of the men rise and pick up a sword. He now stood directly behind Legolas, sword raised. The exhausted elf had no idea what was about to happen.

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**AN: **Wow... I totally didn't expect ANY of THIS to happen. My imagination must have gotten away from me... I'll have to find it and put it back in its cage before it hurts some one...

I'm so excited! You guys are so great with your reviews! Every single one makes me grin like the Chesire Cat. Every one seemed to love the 'blessed nightclothes' remark and the little pillowfight.

Thanks tons go to **PeppyPower, bookworm, Alenor Peredhel, Aimme, ArodieltheElfofRohan, theo darkstar, Tsukari0504, kerigan, Eye of Newt, SpiceChaiPrincessOfDoom, Nelarun, MythicalCreature, **and **Verity Kindle.**

You guys spoil me! ... (Keep it comin... lol!)


	5. Foolish Attackers

**Disclaimer: **Whenever I see something along the lines of 'I don't own these characters' in other people's fics, I giggle. Then I remember I don't own them either.

**AN: **You know, the longer I wait to post new chapters, the more reviews I get in the meantime... reviews that ask me to update. It's a vicious circle.

This chapter is for **Alenor Peredhel **to settle my little debt I have with her, **MythicalCreature **for Pm'ing me into action, and **Miriel Silivrennial **for taking the time to sit and read EVERYTHING I've posted on this site (and reviewed too!). Love you guys!

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The man leading the charge across the plain sucked in a sharp breath at the sight before him. It had taken so long to fetch mounts to chase after the elf and his pursuers, he had nearly given up hope at catching them before the elf was hurt.

He and the others had been completely taken aback when the prince had been attacked, and even more so when things had escalated so dramatically. Dail had still been up on the wall when his brother had been slashed brutally across the throat and the elf had snatched the sword and made a break for the gates.

He had called for horses, cursing the poor building plans that had the stables all the way up on the sixth tier, and all but leapt off the wall in his hurry to reach his brother. Kale had still been alive when the horses had arrived, mostly due to the fact that the sword had cut more length-wise than deep, and Dail had left his brother's side only because he knew that Kale's attacker was out there trying to harm someone else.

As he and four of his men charged across the plain, they watched with growing amazement as the elf disarmed and brought down the last two of his assailants with an easy grace.. As they neared the elf though, they could better see how exhausted he was. Movements were slow, the pull of gravity became harder to resist. They were close enough by the time he dispatched the last man that they were able to see the sword waver as it slapped the man across the face, although it was no less graceful than anything else he had managed.

They exchanged grunts of admiration between themselves as they closed the distance, but they tensed immediately as they spotted movement behind the elf. Dail was the first to shout the warning as the leader rose and stalked toward the elf on somewhat wobbly legs. There was nothing wobbly however, about the sword the man carried.

The rest of the men picked up the warning cry, but the elf only eyed them in mounting confusion and irritation. The wobbly man raised the sword high, obviously intending to bring the weapon down and slice the weary elf in two.

Dail and his men added frantic signals to their cries, and just as the man began the downward swing, the prince's wearied mind managed to grasp what they were trying to tell him. He half spun, bringing up his own sword in retaliation, but even his otherworldly reflexes weren't quick enough to stop the cruel metal from slicing into his flesh.

The elf's pained cry floated towards the guards on a friendly breeze, mingled with the harsh clang of metal. One of the guards drew his bow. The man looked down, surprised that his powerful swing hadn't separated the elf in two. Somehow, someway, the blasted creature had managed to get his stolen weapon up to partially block the wicked strike.

The elf's sword had caught on the tip of his attacker's blade. The weapons quivered violently from the force, and Legolas gritted his teeth as the blade slid ever deeper into his side. The tip of his own sword had gotten caught in the ground from his weight as he leaned on it. It was a miracle that he had been able to wrench it far enough into a parry to keep himself from getting instantly killed.

The two adversaries stared each other down, and although his vision was turning an alarming shade of red around the edges, Legolas did not blink or turn his attention away from his opponent. Both were wondering if the other would try for an offensive maneuver. Much to his dismay, Legolas got the sudden feeling that his calculating opponent was planning to try just such a movement.

He doubted that he would be able to stop the man from doing so.

With the knowledge that if the man so chose it, his life would come to a sudden end, he released his grip on the sword's pommel. His fingers uncurled slowly so that the man could tell exactly what was going on; the last thing he wanted was to frighten the man into doing something foolish. Well, more foolish than attacking an elf that is. And also more foolish for believing said elf would give in.

As the man relaxed upon seeing the elf defenseless, Legolas surreptitiously worked his foot to the side. With a sudden lunge, he tore away from the man and his weapon, fingers reclosing about the hilt of the sword. The man started forwards, startled into sudden fury at the elf's actions, intent on swinging his sword again, this time separating the elf's head from his body.

An arrow whistled through the air and struck him in the right shoulder. He shrieked in pain and surprise, and his grip on his sword loosened. The weapon slid from suddenly nerve-less fingers and lay upon the grass, its deadly edge gleaming with fresh blood. Legolas assisted him to the ground with a rough smack to the temple with a sword hilt.

The red around the edge of his vision began to darken into the deep black that one associates with caves and well-shafts. By the time his legs gave way and he fell into the arms of the guards, arrived at last, he could see no light at all.

Dail leaped from his horse and barely managed to catch the elf before he struck the ground. He lowered the prince the rest of the way and turned his attention to the sprawled figure of the attacker. The arrow protruded, an ugly pin stuck harshly into an even uglier pincushion. He thought of his brother, laying with his throat torn wide open, and had to fight the urge to insert his sword into the man's flesh as well.

He refrained only because it was not his duty to pass judgment on those, no matter how he wished it. Twas why Pran had not aimed his arrow at the man's heart or skull, why the elf had not chosen to run him through when he had the chance. These attackers' punishments would be left to King Aragorn.

Deciding that it would not be prudent to kick the man either, and seeing that two men had begun to administer rudimentary first aid to the man (although they weren't being particularly gentle), he allowed himself to look back upon the elf.

The blonde prince was very pale, and streams of blood ran from the deep slash at his waist to pool on the grass beneath him. Dail wasted no time in tearing elf's bloody tunic into strips and binding the wound best he could.

As he settled back, noting that all three of the men were bound tightly, he sighed. Several horses really should be kept near the gates so that situations like these wouldn't happen. If the elf had been anyone else, he probably would have been run down and killed before the alarm had reached the stables. It was grim luck that he had managed to defeat all three of them anyways.

The elf stirred then, and a grimace of pain crossed his high, proud features. He did not come back to full consciousness though, and Dail was left with the problem of how to transport the wounded elf. After some consideration, he called Pran over, and told him to help transport the elf from the ground to the back of the horse.

He was very light, so light that Dail could have done the job himself, but he was grateful to have the extra help in any case, especially when it came to lifting the elf to the horse's back. He mounted first, and then with Pran's help, managed to settle the injured prince in front of him. He wrapped one arm firmly about the elf's chest, took the reins in the other hand and clucked at the mare.

She started forward obediently, but Dail dared not go any faster than a walk. He looked back and saw that all three of the attackers had been roused and were unsteadily walking along at swordpoint. The arrow had been pulled from the leader and the wound had been bound in much the same manner as the elf's. Dail had far more sympathies for the wounded prince however.

It took nearly a quarter of an hour to reach the gates, and another half to reach the sixth tier where the Healing Houses were located. The king met them there, gave a burning glare to the prisoners and ordered them kept nearby and guarded at all times, and hustled after Dail and Pran, who were once more carrying the prince.

They lay him on a bed and retreated to the door to allow Aragorn room to move about and wait for orders. He sent them from the room less than five minutes later, telling Dail to go and see about Kale, and Pran to see that the three men were sent to the prison after their wounds were seen to, if not sooner.

Aragorn looked down at the pale, still figure of his friend and shook his head, partly in dismay, but mostly in anger at those who had done this. It was not going to be easy to give out a justifying sentence to the thugs. What he really wanted to do, he reflected as he readied the needle and thread for stitches, was to sentence them all to be drawn and quartered. But that might cause upset among the people of Minas Tirith, some of whom did not hold with the idea of men being killed for attacking a mere elf.

Twas a burden sometimes, Aragorn thought as he began the slow but steady stitching, to have a friend of a different race, a race that sometimes drew the contempt of Men, who thought that they were the superior. He paused and looked at Legolas' face, thinking of the many years he had spent happily beside the elf. A burden it may have been, but it was one that he would have borne with a smile if it had been thousands of times heavier.

He started again, regretting the lost time, as Legolas shifted and uttered a low groan. His face twisted into a grimace, and after a moment, his eyelids flickered open, revealing a pair of slightly confused, yet startlingly clear and blue eyes.

"Once again, my friend," Aragorn said conversationally, trying to draw his friend's attention away from the pain, "you have managed to land yourself in trouble of epic proportions."

Legolas' breath escaped him in what might have been a laugh if it hadn't pulled at his wound. "Twas not of my doing, Aragorn. And I have managed to escape once again."

"But not unscathed." He was nearly finished now. "Legolas, how on Arda could you have gone through the entire war without a major wound, and yet in four days manage to--"

"Get attacked by highwaymen, receive numerous burns, and be charged by men who intended to kill me?" Legolas finished, affecting a bored, off-handed tone. "I do not know. Trouble and danger attract themselves to me on a regular basis. Tis not my fault."

The king sighed, and slid an arm under his friend's shoulders. "Up for a moment please." Legolas struggled to a sitting position, though doing so pulled at the tender skin and the new stitches. He took a long bandage and began to wrap the wound, doubling it over and over to ensure that nothing would disturb the skin while it was healing.

"It may not be your fault, but it doesn't change the fact that you are constantly making people worried about you. All right, lay back. Arwen will no doubt be along soon. She was the one who received the news that three men had assaulted a blonde elf first, and no doubt would have beaten me here if Eldarion had not been sleeping."

Legolas peered up from the large pillows and said softly, "I truly do not mean to worry you so. I worry about you far more often than I worry about myself."

Aragorn resisted the urge to tap Legolas's nose reprimandingly. "That is probably why you end up in trouble so much _mellon-nin_."

The elf's blue eyes were sliding shut, but he still managed to ask one final question. "The man whose sword I used, is he all right?"

Aragorn paused for a moment (he had not heard that Legolas had fought with a sword, and he felt a surge of worry for the condition of the elf's previously inflicted wounds) before replying that the man was expected to make a full recovery. "He had jerked away from the force, and therefore one of his companions was able to staunch the bleeding. He will be left with naught but a thin scar."

The elf nodded and slumped against the pillows, eyes glazing over gently in sleep.

Aragorn sighed, and with a good deal of amusement he noted that he did it much more often whenever the elf was present. It was perfectly understandable, especially because he spent so much time worrying about Legolas, who spent much of _his_ time worrying about everyone else.

The door slid open, and Aragorn looked up to see his wife enter, closely followed by Pran. Arwen held Eldarion in her arms and a look of concern on her beautifully ethereal face. "Is he well?" she asked upon seeing his still form.

"He will be all right. The wound is deep, and I have not yet seen to any previous injuries, but he woke briefly and was clear-minded. He shall be fine, given a few days rest. And this time, I intend to make sure he stays in bed until I let him out. If I have to bind his arms and legs to the bedposts, he will rest until _I _say otherwise."

Arwen smiled at the determined tone in Aragorn's voice and sat in one of the two chairs near the bed. "I wish you luck in that endeavor, my love. You will certainly need it."

Her husband smiled back, then turned to Pran and began to question him about the encounter.

The queen absentmindedly allowed her son to play with her slender fingers while she eyed the figure resting comfortably underneath the thin coverlet. She did not envy the elf when he awoke. She was certain that he would be receiving a rather severe tongue-lashing from Aragorn.

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**AN: **Agh! Is it really this late in the game? Well, I'm in California now... I'm pleading that the wind and sun have messed with my mind, therefore giving me writers block. There may be several among you who insist that I said I would post before I left, or even last week. Don't listen to them. I never said such a thing. (blushes)

Once again, THANK YOU SO MUCH to all the people who told me to get my rear in gear and post. Now, I wonder why they did that... Is it because they like my writing, or were they just worried about Legolas? Or is there another, more sinister reason...

Never mind me, just someone who's excited about summer and all the reviews she got for the last chapter! (if that's not a blatant hint, I don't know what is) Thanks go to **Alenor Peredhel, lillypop, AlenaRivendell, PeppyPower, Aimme, Miriel Silivrennial, abby, **and **Daylightwatcher ofVampires. **


	6. Kingly Troubles

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing whatsoever. Please do not sic lawyers on me, we have a bad history. Thank you.

**AN: **Um…It's-- /shrieks and flees from the angry mass of readers\ Hey now! After all this time, wasn't it nice to see that little alert in your email? No? Well… uh… uh… just… go read the chapter. I'll see you all at the bottom with notes and a funny little story, if you promise not to harm me in any way shape or form. Special Thanks go to **MythicalCreature**, **LovewithWars**, and **Alenor Peredhel** for nudging my lazy arse into gear.

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He came back into awareness with a start upon hearing soft, troubled voices. Half of his brain automatically took stock of his now-numerous injuries, while the other half occupied itself with discerning the reason for the sadness in the unknown voices.

His latest 'acquisition' was throbbing, but not enough to linger upon it. The healers had most likely stitched the wound and administered some sort of numbing salve. The original knife wound merely itched like mad, a sure sign that it was healing. The burns across his shoulders were the most irritating for obvious reasons: no matter how one positions oneself, the stretched and blistered skin would be put under pressure of some kind. He felt his brow crease slightly as he realized that even though he was supported by several very soft bolsters, his upper back felt as if it was aflame.

"There now, see?" Aragorn. The elf allowed his eyes to refocus and eyed his friend wearily. The king was addressing three of his guards, all of whom were watching Legolas in something close to amazement. "He was simply sleeping."

One of the men stepped forward, and even in his vague haze, Legolas recognized the man who had had his throat cut. He bore a strong resemblance to one of the others, they were most likely brothers. The man's hand twitched uncertainly near his collar, which was open enough to reveal white bandages. The room was not large by any means, and the Gondorian looked as if he wished it was a hundred times as big.

Legolas allowed a smile to form at the man's obvious discomfort. "I do not bite. And I certainly wouldn't try to bite one as lucky as you. It is not often that one survives such a wound." He turned his gaze to Aragorn for the briefest of moments. "One would think that you should still be abed and not back in livery so soon."

The man shrugged, put at ease by Legolas's friendly manner. "Tis my duty, milord. I cannot be persuaded to stray from it for long. I came to thank you."

The elf waved a slender hand. "For what? By all accounts, you were the one who saved me by placing yourself between myself and my attacker. For that, _I _thank _you_. Also, I thank you for the use of your sword. It was a lifesaver." He smiled and looked past the man at the other two. "Who are you?"

"I am Dail, and this is Pran. We are two of the men who rode out after you."

The elf's countenance hardened. "'After' seems to be the key word in the sentence. Why did it take you so long to ride to my assistance? Surely you realized that I would need help?"

Taken aback, the two men stuttered wildly. "M-milord, we could—"

"Could what?" Legolas demanded, now furious. "Could not see fit to help a defenseless citizen? Could not deem yourselves lowly enough to help a mere elf? Perhaps you should be stripped of your duties for a time. What do you think, King Aragorn?"

Aragorn stared speechlessly first at his friend, upright and staring vengefully, and then at his guards, who were swiftly turning red with fury. His mind raced as he tried to decide how to handle this suddenly sour confrontation.

A soft voice interrupted the tension in the small room. "My dear Legolas, stop torturing them." Arwen entered the room, bringing with her a sense of calm and peace. "They are not accustomed to your odd sense of humour."

Legolas smiled cheerfully and replied, "Then I shall ask that they never come to Eryn Lasgalen. A war would be started within minutes."

A moment of silence followed this remark, then the scowls on the faces of the guards melted away and they exchanged grins and approving noises. They stayed for several minutes longer; falling into an easy conversation with the elf before Aragorn subtly kicked them out, saying that they all had duties to attend to.

The instant the door shut behind them, he turned on Legolas, eyes bright with anger and slight amusement. "Just what were you thinking? You were very lucky that they are an easy-going group. If they had been any one else, you could have started something unpleasant!"

Arwen sat near the bed and offered Legolas a view of little Eldarion, snuggled deep inside a blanket. "Oh Aragorn, you know as well as I that our wood-elf is an excellent judge of character. You have nothing to worry about. The most that will happen will be stories of Legolas's acting talent. Would you like to hold him, Greenleaf?"

The elf eyed the child warily before deciding that if nothing horrid had happened before, nothing would happen now. Besides, he was in a bed. If Eldarion happened to wriggle free, he would have a little drop onto a soft mattress. Shrugging mentally he nodded and Arwen handed her son over.

The king sighed and quietly left the room, promising to return as soon as possible. He was going to have to deal with the men who had attacked his best friend.

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Aragorn did not bother to look up from the leather tome in his lap as the door opened. Four men entered, leading the three attackers behind them. There was a bit of a tussle when one of the men didn't move quickly enough for the guards liking. Aragorn ignored it all until he sensed that the three men were where they ought to be.

"Assault with intent to harm or kill," he said softly, raising his head to look each of them in the eyes. "The three of you conspired to kill Prince Legolas, did you not?" None of the men responded, and Aragorn pressed onward. "That is considered treason I'll have you know. Since you failed in your unsavory 'task', you will not be put to death. This leaves imprisonment as punishment. I ask you now, why did you try to kill the prince? I am under the impression that he has never done you any harm."

"Be that as it may, your majesty, perhaps it was the idea of the Prince that had offended them."

Aragorn just barely managed to avoid looking startled at the intrusion. "I beg your pardon, Milast? The idea of Prince Legolas?"

The advisor nodded unhappily. "Perhaps these men are of a…shall I say unkind opinion toward elves?"

Aragorn kept his focus on the men, and noted a slight motion as the advisor voiced his theory. "Is this true?"

The men shuffled a bit, and to Aragorn's perceptive eye, two of them seemed rather ruffled at the remark. The third remained calm. "Your majesty, we have nothing against the elves. We were merely doing as we were told."

The former Dunedain's eyebrows snapped together. When he spoke, the men quailed. "And what exactly were you told to do?"

"We were told…" the man swallowed before forging onward. "We were told that if we could permanently disable the prince—"he faltered for an instant as thunderheads began to brew on Aragorn's forehead, "then we would be paid handsomely for our trouble."

_Oh, there's going to be trouble all right, _though Aragorn fiercely. "You are mercenaries?"

"Of a sort," the other replied hesitantly.

"You are not anymore," the king said decisively, picking up his book once more. "It will be rather difficult to run your filthy business while you are rotting in a prison for the rest of your days. Good bye."

The stricken looks on the men's faces as they were led away served to allow a small smile on Aragorn's face.

That smile dissipated quickly though, as he thought about the man's words.

Like it or not, and as one who had been raised with the elves, Aragorn knew that there was much strife between the two races. Men resented the elves for their seemingly purposeful detachment from the rest of the world. To some, it seemed as if the firstborn (a title that rankled the more prideful of the men) were trying to keep themselves separate from the 'lower classes'. The elves on the other hand, tended to view men as boorish, greedy, unmindful beings who wanted nothing more than to better themselves in the world.

Of course, it was not like that everywhere. More often than not, if one were to put elf and human in the same room, they would emerge with a higher respect for the other. Aragorn rubbed his temples. Before he became the king of Gondor, he had not been aware that tension between the two races was becoming so thick. He knew that some men were not overly fond of the elves, for he had seen slavers, mercenaries, and yes, even hunters. But he also knew that sometimes the elves provoked such attention. The first born in Lorien and Rivendell did not encounter men very often, and only those in the woodland realm ever made much contact with the outside beings. He knew that even Legolas would admit that the wood-elves did not always handle men well.

But it was mostly a case of misunderstanding and stereotyping. After all, not all men disliked the elves to the degree where they tried to exterminate or enslave them. Not all elves, on the other hand, hated men or saw them as creatures trying to gain a higher place.

A soft sigh escaped him and he stood, intending to walk to his chambers and try and forget the whole ordeal. He wistfully remembered the days when he didn't have to worry about things like this. But in having both an elvish wife and best friend, not to mention the settlement of Ithilien nearby, he could easily see the ever-growing conflict. He just hoped that the slowly heating tempers would not come to a boil anytime soon.

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Kale shifted absentmindedly as he cleaned his sword. His neck throbbed as he turned his head slightly to look more closely at a miniscule burr near the hilt. Several more minutes passed before he deemed the blade clean. He stood and sheathed the weapon, wondering how in the world that skinny elf had managed to defeat three opponents with such a heavy weapon.

How he wished he could have seen that! Unfortunately, the cut across his throat had held his full attention, and he hadn't even been aware that his sword was gone until his brother had presented it to him as he had left the healing room.

Much to Dail and Pran's amusement, Kale had insisted upon visiting the elf after hearing of the events that happened after his downfall. They had indulged him and made their way to the prince's room, only to discover –much to their horror- Legolas flat on his back with his hands folded across his chest and his eyes open and glazed.

It had taken much convincing and calming on the king's part before they allowed themselves to be persuaded that elves slept with their eyes open. Of course, Legolas' awakening had helped matters too.

Kale grinned to himself as he remembered the sudden coolness of the prince's tone as he began haughtily reprimanding Pran and Dail. Looking back, he saw the stricken looks of his brother and Pran as they tried to explain, and then the growing rage, and finally the pure shock as they realized it was all an act. The Gondorian intended on seeking out the prince and congratulating him. Dail and Pran were notoriously hard to fool, and yet they had fallen for it. He pointedly overlooked the fact that he too was about to open his mouth and let loose a barrage of insults before Queen Arwen entered the room.

His short reminiscing period was cut short as the sounds of a nearby struggle reached his ears. He got to his feet and charged towards the alley from which the noises emanated.

He arrived on the scene in a matter of seconds, sword drawn and ready to settle the peace. Much to his surprise, the small side street was utterly deserted. He took a single step forward and was instantly set upon by two ferocious men. It was over in less than ten heartbeats.

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Arwen made her way through the streets without too much incident, other than the admiring looks cast her way by many people. She kept her head high but she was not above making eye contact and smiling. Her simple clothing, a deep violet dress with matching slippers, did not drip wealth or haughty arrogance. She might as well have been on her way to sit in the garden rather than out roaming the streets.

This, more than anything, made her seem more like a maiden you would want to befriend than a queen.

She moved quickly and lightly, seeming almost to float across the cobblestones and making her guard appear almost clumsy in comparison. A small nod here, a quick smile there, and then she was at the House of Healing and inside.

She enjoyed the calm atmosphere here, as it reminded her of her father's home in her youth. It carried the same sense of rejuvenation. There were no raised voices, rarely any noises at all save for the patter of soft-soled healers' shoes as they scurried about from room to room, making certain all was well.

It wasn't a particularly large building, Arwen mused as she approached Legolas' room, but it never seemed cramped, no matter how many people were darting here and there.

She knocked gently on the door, acknowledged a passing man, and cautiously opened the oaken door. "Hello, Legolas," she began in Elvish. "Aragorn sent me to make sure you were—"she broke off and stared at the empty bed in consternation, "not out of bed and causing trouble," she finished, somewhat lamely.

She stepped closer to the bed to make sure her friend had not fallen off the opposite side before retreating back to the door and eyeing the room critically. The bed was unmade, the coverlet trailing onto the floor and the sheets twisted. Her sharp eyes caught sight of small droplets of red upon the white linen and she felt her stomach twist in concern.

Without a second glance, she rushed out the door and down the hall, ignoring the confused and concerned looks sent her way. Legolas was missing, and she dearly hoped he was well. If she found him walking around outside on the streets, she would not bother to go to Aragorn, she would berate him herself for causing her to panic.

She did not want to entertain the notion that perhaps Legolas' disappearance had been forced.

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**AN:** Well was that worth the wait? \ducks flying objects/ heh heh! Let me know how Arwen is coming along. I'm very nervous with her character, especially because we don't really see much of her in the books or movies even. But I don't want to leave her out because I'm scared to write her…. Do you see my dilemma?

So anyways, just a funny note: Lately I've rediscovered my childhood love for the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Hey, no laughing… I love 'em! (I canna decide who is my fav, but that's ok…) All of my friends are teasing me about it… Anyways, I think I've been spending too much time immersed in their universe… I meant to start writing this earlier, but when I opened the new document and began to ponder what to write, all the came to mind was Aragorn and Legolas reclining on a sofa, eating pizza, and saying 'dude' in every other sentence. Needless to say I screeched and slammed the top of my laptop down… lol!

Hey guys, even though I left you all hanging for awhile, I still like reviews! **Alenor Peredhel, LovewithWars, Tsukari0504, lillypop, Aimme, ArodieltheElfofRohan, StrangerToTheWorld, rivendellelve, MythicalCreature **and **invisigoth3 **all rock for reviewing chapter five.


	7. Found

**Disclaimer: **Yo ho, yo ho, no Tolkien rights for me. I plot and think and wrack my brain, stand up my writers yo ho, I'm smart and I'm brilliant, but the laws are a pain, stand up my writers yo ho! Yo ho, yo ho, no Tolkien rights for me.

**AN: **(peeks out from behind a nondescript sofa) Hello all! After more than a year… I expect that most of you have hoarded and/or fashioned some dangerous weapons with which to poke me. Please don't. I beg you! I've just been very busy what with life and original novels and the like… and I lost my spark. Until I reread what I had written and decided: 'Hey! This is really quite good. Now even _I_ want to know what happens!' And here we are, after I took several hours off my novel to type this up. I hope everyone is still interested, and that you will all forgive me!

A quick recap: The last time we met, Arwen had just made the very unsettling discovery that Legolas had disappeared, leaving behind not a trace except for some bloodstains among the rumpled sheets. Kale, brother of Dail, had just gone to find the source of a disturbance in an alleyway and was attacked. Recall? If not, gone back to reread the last chapter? Good. Onward!

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"Aragorn! Aragorn!"

The King's head shot up in alarm. He was out of his chair so quickly that Milast blinked and missed the movement. The advisor stared in amazement as his king 'reappeared' in front of the door as it opened to reveal a very distressed Arwen.

Aragorn caught his wife as she nearly collided with him. "Arwen, what is the matter? What is it?"

Her long dark hair was tangled from her rush, and her face was flushed. She grasped his forearms, trying to regain her breath. "He is gone!"

Aragorn guided her to his very-recently vacated chair. "Who is gone? Love, what's happened?"

"Legolas. I went in to visit him and he was just... gone." Slowly, but clearly, she related how she had walked into the room and seen the empty bed with the twisted sheets with the bright red droplets of blood. "He was just gone. Aragorn, what if--?"

The king placed a finger across her lips. "I am sure he is just unintentionally causing trouble. Perhaps he simply became bored and left the room. You know he does not like to stay in bed."

He did not want to believe that Legolas may have been attacked by the same people that had hired the mercenaries, even while he was recovering in a 'safe' place. The very idea that even the Houses of Healing could be invaded, for lack of a better word, was extremely unsettling. He, like Arwen, did not want to believe it was possible.

"Let us go and see what we may. Perhaps I can discern where he has gone. Valar willing, he will have gotten tired and returned to bed." Taking Arwen's hands, he drew her to her feet, and with a quick apologetic glance to Milast, the royal couple exited the room.

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"I am afraid I frightened everyone," Arwen admitted to her husband as they left the hall. "I was in such a hurry that I did not think to tell anyone what was wrong."

"It's all right. No one will hold it against you." The pair was hurrying along as fast as they could without attracting too much attention. Granted, when one was royalty, there was only so much one could remain inconspicuous. Guards, numbering more than a dozen, followed at a discreet distance.

They reached the Houses of Healing in near record time, and once they were inside, the pair abandoned their previous dignified pace. Unspoken fear for their friend had them both rushing through the peaceful halls to arrive at the elf's room in a flurry of apprehension. Aragorn thought, for the briefest second, how ridiculous they would look if Legolas had simply gotten up to fetch himself a drink, rather than bother to call for a glass.

But as he entered the room, that faint hope of slight embarrassment rather than tragedy, withered and died. The room was precisely as it had been when Arwen had left. Sharp grey eyes took in the scene, noting everything from the sheets to the blood droplets. And then he spotted something that his wife had missed. Something that anyone could have overlooked had they not spent the better part of their lives as a ranger skilled in tracking. There was a droplet of blood staining the floor near the balcony door.

Memories from a past experience in which the elf had thrown everyone into a panic by stepping outside without telling anyone, into a storm no less, entered Aragorn's mind. Stepping towards the door, he prayed to the Valar that this instance was the same. Taking hold of the handle, his nerves got the best of him and he pulled a little harder than he would have liked. The door flew open and he found himself face to face with the startled blue eyes of one Legolas Thrandulion.

The elf looked at Aragorn in no little surprise. His friend's face was a mask of relief, quickly disappearing to be replaced by vexation. Dark hair had come loose from its neat tail, accented by stormy grey eyes already looking him up and down to ascertain that all was well.

"_Mellon-nin_," the former ranger said, carefully retaining control of his vocal cords, "you and I need to have a serious talk about remaining in your bed and not causing undue worry."

Understanding came in the form of an embarrassed flush that spread across high cheekbones and contrasted sharply with his pale skin. He caught sight of Arwen gazing over her husband's shoulder, shaking her lovely head in a mix of amused resignation. "Oh. I am sorry, I really am. I just… did not want to remain inside on such a lovely day. I did not think to tell someone that I was stepping out."

"Keep that in mind for the future, young bratling," Arwen said, waving a slender finger. "You frightened us both." Her gaze travelled pointedly down to his bandaged torso, where the white was stained crimson. "And you are not well enough to be up and about. Come inside."

Head bowed, properly abashed in light of her gentle reprimands, he stepped back into the room. Under her direction, he sat gingerly in the room's only chair and allowed Aragorn to see to his injuries. The king of Gondor did this with customary care and thoroughness, accompanied by some very unprofessional grumbles about the elf choosing to listen to Arwen when it came to medical needs and not to the ones who actually knew what they were talking about.

"But Estel," said elf protested, "you do not possess the same gentle manner as your lovely wife. Quite the contrary, you issue the orders and expect them to be obeyed… it is not quite the same when the face is that of a scruffy human instead of one of the most exquisite _elleths_ alive."

This led to much huffing on Aragorn's part, and much blushing on Arwen's. In this manner, Legolas managed to calm the royal couple until their panic had been all but forgotten. His side was firmly bound in clean white bandages and upon inspection, Estel was happy to report that the elf's shoulders had not been injured further in his unusual swordfight.

Arwen kept Legolas's attention during the impromptu inspection by teasing him mercilessly about a particularly embarrassing incident that happened when the elf was quite young, even by human standards.

"There comes a time when even an elf must regret Iluvatar's decision to grant us long memories," he grumbled, face red in mortification.

"Ah, but how then, could one recall a time when a tiny elfling dashed about the halls of Imladris, poking everyone he met with a stolen piece of cutlery, in naught but his underbreeches?" Arwen laughed. As her friend began to resemble a certain red vegetable, she subsided, bell-like chuckles still escaping her lips as she remembered her friend's very first visit to the Last Homely House.

A still-blushing Legolas stared down at his crossed legs, resisting the urge to flick his shoulders as Aragorn's cold hands spread colder salve across his tender skin. He supposed that he would have to stop leaving his room, as much as he abhorred the thought, at least until his injuries were well on their way to healing. Not only would it keep his friends happy, it would keep him out of trouble. He glanced upwards, half-expecting to see a sign above his head reading 'Attack This Being'. He saw only the nondescript cream coloured ceiling.

He fought the urge to sigh. The very same ceiling he would be staring at for at least the next three days. He would much rather rest elsewhere, for though the Houses were calm, he would take even the most horribly humiliating stories about his childhood in stride rather than spend those days alone.

"Legolas, why don't you come and remain with us for a time instead of staying here?"

Startled, he looked down to meet Arwen's knowing eyes. He'd forgotten how perceptive she could be, often knowing one's thoughts before they could discover it themselves. All the same, he felt the corners of his lips turn up in a smile.

"I could not. It would impose." He lifted a hand to stay the predictable protests. "I insist. You have just welcomed a new life into your family, the last thing you need is to watch over two of us. If Aragorn is agreeable to my leaving this room however, I would much rather stay in my quarters. They are closer, and more spacious." He did not add that his quarters would not have well-meaning healers poking their noses into the rooms every two hours.

Arwen turned to her husband, who could find no reason to object. It would perhaps, be more difficult to keep an eye out for his friend's well-being, but allowing the elf to choose his place of residence for the next several days would almost certainly cut down on the possibility of more 'disappearances'.

An urgent rapping on the door had them all turning. As soon as Legolas had donned a loose overshirt of muslin, Aragorn bade the knocker enter.

The unexpected visitor stood tall and broad-shouldered in the doorway. He bowed deeply to Arwen and turned his attention immediately to the king. "Captain Forwo, your majesty. There's been trouble."

The former ranger stood immediately. "Where?"

The man looked uncomfortably at Arwen, sitting calmly by the bed and watching with large, attentive eyes. "Perhaps I should not say…"

"Please, continue."

At her reassurance, Captain Forwo continued his report, eyes downcast, "Two men attacked Kale Devan early this morning. Several citizens saw it happen; the attackers made no attempt to hide as they exited the alley. Kale was killed before any could come to his aid."

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Legolas and Arwen stepped out of the tranquil House and were immediately immersed in the bustle of a city. The self same city that had witnessed a brutal murder not four hours ago and neither knowing nor caring to know, went on with life. There were still things to be bought, food to be cooked, young ones to look after.

Never again for Kale Devan.

Dail would have been found and told by this time. The two kind-hearted beings ached for the man who had lost his brother. Who else would be affected by Kale's death? Was his mother still living? His father? Did he have a wife, or children? If he had, what would become of them? Would they be provided for until money could be found? Some cities, the woodelf knew, would offer a monetary compensation if a member of the guard was killed. Was Gondor the same?

Legolas watched the flow of people going about their tasks and wondered: if any of them knew what had transpired, that someone who had dedicated his life to protect them had died today, what would they have done? Would they have stopped to mourn, or remember, to pause in the briefest moment of respect? Yes, he decided, allowing Arwen to choose their path. Surely they would.

He was not wholly unsurprised to discover his companion had led them back to the royal living quarters. Though they could hardly be called quarters, he thought, glancing surreptitiously at the heavy tapestries and gorgeous furniture. Arwen made her way instantly to the cradle where Eldarion slumbered, dismissing the nanny with a sad smile and word of thanks.

She bent and stroked her son's tiny hand. "That poor man. How horrible."

Legolas sat in a chair and broodingly rested his chin in his hands. "Yes. Finding the perpetrators will be difficult, even with help of people who saw the men first hand. It's such a large city, they could have already left and no one would be the wiser."

"They'll be found." Arwen's voice was certain. "They will be found and punished for their crimes."

The woodelf shifted in his seat, wishing that he could be as confident as his long-time friend.

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"I'd better not find out that you had something to do with this!"

Brandy and a natural temper were the causes of Hilden's red face and shaking finger. He pointed viciously at Jorn, who remained calm and unperturbed.

"Sir, why would I wish that guard ill? I don't even know his name."

Logic, rarely appreciated by the tipsy and enraged (of which Hilden was both), only served to further color the big man's face. Jorn watched in a mixture of disgust and amusement as his leader stumbled back to his chair and reached for the bottle again. Why the ingestion of liquor was suddenly so important was beyond him.

Perhaps, he mused thoughtfully, it was because the mercenaries had been first beaten by their target, then thrown in prison without giving Hilden a refund for being unable to finish the job. The elf had then effectively disappeared from the public eye, and had been gone for the past two days.

Hilden's obsession with the elf-prince quite frankly confused many of his underlings, Jorn included. However, while they certainly were not as prejudiced as some, they held less qualms about potentially harming an elf than they did a man. They followed Hilden because he had been the leader of the underground network for so long, most of them couldn't remember it being any different. He had the money to pay them for their dirty work and unsavory tasks, and for many that was all that was needed to buy allegiance.

Jorn however, was not necessarily persuaded by money alone. During the past several days, he'd chafed more than ever under what he perceived as incompetent leadership. He could do so much better, he knew it, and he suspected that others knew it as well: It was _him _they looked to for order confirmation, _him _they relied on to make wise decisions. Hilden was nothing more than a figurehead of an organization that was desperate to break free and become so much more.

All it needed, the wiry man thought to himself as his leader glared at what appeared to be a dust speck on the creaking old table, was a little _push_.

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**AN: **Hardly a big entrance back into the story, neh? ; ) All the same, I'm dying to get back on track for updating here! I promise whenever I'm not working on my novel, I'll be working on this story! And let it be said here and now that I'll NEVER give up on a fic. Swear unto the Valar. Plus, for the first time in my long writing career, I 'Made A Plan'. The next three chapters are plotted out, so maybe it won't take as long as it does when I'm flying along by just plain instinct! (AND they'll be longer! I'll make this up to you somehow!)

Many many thanks to **rivendellelve, LovewithWars, Aimme, Alenor Peredhel, MythicalCreature, ArodieltheElfofRohan, **and **Carnivorous Panda** for reviewing chapter six. Again, I'm dreadfully sorry to leave you wondering for over a year!


	8. Old Friend

**Disclaimer: **Yo ho, yo ho, no Tolkien rights for me.

**AN: **Let it be known that Rebell (known as 'Nibbles' by a select few) is back in business! Check it out! Three weeks gone by (give or take a few dozen hours…coughcough) and already another chapter up! Celebrate! (And see the bottom for an important note!)

Dedicated to **rivendellelve **for the inspiring review! (hugs)

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Three mornings after the elf's disappearance and subsequent reappearance found him sleeping peacefully in his quarters, for the moment unbothered by the restlessness that governed most of his waking hours. He'd been true to his word and had not left the room save for meals and occasional visits to Arwen and Eldarion. And also true to form, he'd grown tired of the same small space before the sun had set on the first day.

He'd spent much of his time watching people pass outside the single window, amazed as always at the sheer number of beings out and about at any given time. He was quite positive that there were more people in this enormous city than there was in all of Eryn Lasgalen. The rest of the time he spent whittling, finishing not only the top for Eldarion but a tiny bracelet made of wooden links.

Though he would not admit it, the extensive period of relaxation had done his injured body wonders. The injury he'd received on his journey to Gondor was already well on its way to becoming a scar. The burns across his shoulders were no longer blistered and peeling, and the bruises gained from the falling beam had faded to a sickly yellow green. Perhaps most importantly, the nasty gash given to him by his attackers on the fields no longer needed stitches, though it still throbbed if he moved too quickly.

All these worries had drifted briefly away during the night's rest. He was currently resting on his good side, facing away from the door, eyes gently glazed. Deep in his subconscious however, a tingle of unease fluttered its way to the surface. There was something wrong.

Warrior's instincts, long honed from many decades of exercise, brought him back to full awareness. The soft edges of sleep disappeared without a trace, to be replaced by an alert wariness. He would not move until he felt it was absolutely necessary. Indeed, barely five seconds passed before he heard footsteps. This was not the measured tread of Aragorn, nor the quiet steps of Arwen. No, these were heavy, with only short pauses before the next foot met the floor. Twas someone short then, with smaller legs and a heavy build.

A gloved hand dropped weightily onto his shoulder and a voice said, "Get up, you lazy elf!"

Drawing in a harsh breath in surprise at the unexpected voice, Legolas rolled to the side, dropping off the opposite edge of the bed. The sudden movement made his side ache, and throb as he landed neatly on his feet with hands up in semblance of defense. Only then did he recognize the person sent in to wake him.

Gimli stood on the other side of the bed, heavy boot tapping on the floor and mighty arms crossed over his stocky chest. Road-dust showed on his set of traveling clothes, and was also apparent in his long red beard. His face seemed to be at war with itself, trying to decide betwixt annoyance and pleasure at seeing his old friend, even if old friend was a little jumpy.

A wide grin split the elf's face, and he dropped his upraised arms. "Gimli!" Choosing to make a more dignified approach to offset his initial mad scramble, he went around the foot of the bed rather than over it. The friendly greeting of clasping shoulders was made somewhat difficult by the fact that Legolas was almost two full heads taller than his companion. "What are you doing here?"

"Aragorn sent word that you were here. I was going to come anyway." This last was added as a teasing jibe, so that the elf couldn't possibly believe that he was the sole reason for the visit.

"Of course you were, friend dwarf."

Gimli's eyes narrowed and he replied, "Besides, I heard that you were getting up mischief again. Someone's got to be around to keep you from getting into trouble."

"And so you took it upon yourself to become my body guard?" Turning, the elf searched for a fresh tunic. He was to leave the room today, for more than just meals or a quick visit, and he was going to be bested by an orc before he went out in rumpled clothes. Pulling out a deep brown bundle of cloth, he pulled his night shirt over his head.

"Aye, and it seems like you need it." The dwarf stared wide-eyed at the bandages wound around his friend's torso. Aragorn hadn't mentioned anything about this.

Snorting, Legolas quickly dressed. "I don't think you have any cause to worry. I certainly don't intend on getting into any more trouble." Nimble fingers combed through his hair, plaiting as they went.

"Right," Gimli said. "I expect you didn't expect to get into trouble in the Glittering Caves either."

"That was completely unavoidable. If you and the rest of your little hairy beings would manage to keep your feet…"

The pair exited the room several minutes later, still arguing.

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Eventually the talk turned from friendly insults to recent events. Gimli listened gravely as his friend filled him in on everything that had happened. Aragorn's letter had been very brief, and the dwarf felt his blood begin to boil as he learned of the attacks made on his friend. And if someone had ever told him before the War had started that he would one day be angered by wrongful deeds done to an elf… He shook his head, beard swaying. He didn't know how Aragorn had managed to keep from sentencing the men responsible for the attack on the plains to be drawn and quartered.

The elf in question rolled his shoulders as they passed through the gateway leading to the fifth tier. They itched abominably, sure signs of healing at once relieving and annoying. The fabric of the bandages sliding almost imperceptibly over his skin only served to heighten the uncomfortable sensation.

"Twitchy today, aren't you?"

Before they could get into another bantering session, a voice carried over the regularly smooth murmur of the city crowd. "Master Legolas!"

The woodelf turned and spotted young Juret Thar, waving furiously. He waved in response and tugged Gimli in the new direction. The boy and his mother were standing in the empty lot that had once held their home and source of income. In the days that had passed since Legolas had last seen them, the area had been cleared, and there were signs of construction. Fresh wooden beams were in the midst of being erected and laid across a bare framework. Several men stood over a small sheet of paper, staring down at it with concentrated expressions.

Felia smiled as the mismatched pair approached. Grasping her plain skirts, she began to curtsy, only to stop in confusion as the elf raised his hand.

"I thought that we had agreed to be friends, and that friends are to be naught but equals."

The woman pushed her hair out of her eyes and responded, eyes downcast, "Milord, I do not recall our brief conversation touching upon that subject."

"Then that must be rectified immediately. Felia, Juret, this is Gimli, son of Gloin."

The dwarf, somewhat surprised at having been brought so suddenly into the conversation, managed a bow to Felia and stretched his hand to Juret. The boy accepted, thrilled to be thought old enough to warrant a handshake, especially from a sturdy _dwarf_.

"You are… rebuilding?" he asked, scrambling for a subject.

He noticed the infernal elf bring up a hand to surreptitiously hide a smile, but had little time to do anything about it. Juret was already talking.

"Yes. They are my father's old friends. And this is the only property that we own, so we may as well rebuild here. Isn't that right, Mother?"

Felia nodded. "They are so kind to help us," she said, gesturing to the men. They each spared a smile and a long glance at the company she was currently keeping before turning back to the sheets of paper. "Brin has his own family to care for, and the other two, Ilor and Yeln have both closed up shop early to come and help every day."

"Master Legolas, why did you run away before?" Juret's young voice broke into the conversation once more, asking the question that had been pulling at the corners of his mind ever since the elf's flight days ago. "The King didn't look very happy with you."

"Juret! You are being rude!" his mother scolded.

"No it's all right. Though I wouldn't say that I 'ran'. I… vacated the area. You see," and here he favored the mother-son pair with a wink, "I was not to be allowed to walk about the city just yet. I am not a very good patient, and yes, the King was rather vexed when he found out."

"He can't have been _that _upset with you," reasoned Juret with all his nine years of experience. "You aren't in a dungeon somewhere."

Gimli chuckled at the image, and Felia brought her hand to her forehead in embarrassment.

"That's true, Master Thar. Though I can't say he wasn't tempted when he'd got hold of me. Let that be a reminder to you: never make someone angry when they have the power to lock you in a room somewhere. And yes, that includes your mother."

Encouraged by the positive response, Juret began to fire questions at the elf, almost more rapidly than Legolas could draw and fire his deadly arrows.

Gimli listened with no little amusement—at least until a crawling sensation had him turning around. He knew as well as anyone the sensation of someone staring. It came with the prickle as the hair on the back of his neck and arms began to stand on end, and the subtle burning in the back of his mind that signified someone was staring quite intensely at his back. Swiveling again, he scanned the crowd but saw nothing that singled out any one person.

Among the passersby, there were the usual glances, double-takes, and even triple-takes upon seeing both a dwarf and an elf, together no less. These days, seeing one or the other was starting to be rare, even in a city the size of Gondor. Then again, it was still a city of Men, and the other races were not exactly what one would call frequent visitors. Some of these people had never even _seen_ a dwarf or an elf before.

Shooting one last suspicious glance into the crowd, the dwarf returned his attention to Juret, who was beginning to eye _him_ curiously too. Through out the rest of the conversation, he couldn't help but feel uneasy. That Lorien elf may have mocked his senses those years before, but he was certainly capable of knowing when someone was watching him.

By the time the pair took their leave, Gimli was twitchy, something that was so out of character for the stolid dwarf that Legolas noticed instantly. "Is something wrong, mellon-nin?"

Gimli scanned the crowd again. "I think there's—" he turned to face the elf just in time to see a man snatch his friend by the scruff of the neck and drag him into an alley.

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**AN: **Soooo… this one took a wee bit longer than I'd thought (and is a little shorter than I'd wanted), but some of these characterizations… whoo-ee! (shakes head) Adding Gimli in there… What was I _thinking_?

Mkay, now for** important stuff**. Me being the busy bee that I am, I've come up with an idea for new Lord of the Rings story. (Plus a Harry Potter one, and if you've got questions about _that_ check out the poll on my profile.) The LotR fic concerns story telling: A series of tales told by Legolas while sitting around a campfire with the Fellowship, detailing how he and Aragorn happened to become friends. And it's not exactly how you would think it would happen. Or something along those lines anyways. There are several different ways I could take it. My question to you is whether it sounds worth writing (can I pull it off, and more importantly, does it sound like something you would want to read). And I warn you now, the road was not an easy one.

**Even MORE importantly: **Thanks are in order to the following lovely people who took pity on the poor author on her knees begging for forgiveness and reviewed. You are the reason this chapter is here now instead of four months from now. **Rivendellelve, kat75643, invisigoth3, **and **LovewithWars** are all amazing. Thank you!


	9. Promises

**Disclaimer: **The chances of me ever owning things from Tolkien's lovely world are as likely as me ever suitably passing a math class.

**AN: ** The long and short of it is merely this: I am very sorry to have left off from this for so long. There really isn't a suitable explanation for the incredible delay, and for that I apologize. Nevertheless, I've always said that if I start it, I shall complete it, and I intend to follow up on that. Thanks go to** misscruel** and her kind words in her PM that inspired me to actually sit down and get somewhere. I may have failed at my Friday deadline, but I was close. A happy New Year to you all! And so we go.

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Three thoughts assailed Gimli, son of Gloin as he saw his friend get hauled away. First was fear for his friend. Second was fear for himself when Aragorn learned that the elf had been snatched from right beneath his nose. And third was that whoever dared to do such a thing was shortly going to be relieved of their head.

Having not yet been to his quarters, he still carried his axe strapped to his back. He slid it free as he charged forward, the comforting weight settling into his palm. That same weight had seen him through countless battles and felled almost too many enemies to count (though he'd certainly made a valiant attempt at it through the War). This particular weapon had been forged by his father shortly after his return from the Battle of Five Armies. The leather wrapped around the grip creaked as his fingers tightened almost to the point of pain.

It was dark in the alley, where the buildings pressed so close together that the light of the sun was hard-pressed to warm the stones. This of course, mattered not to Gimli. His sharp eyes easily picked out the two forms struggling for control perhaps twenty yards away. The would-be captor was currently discovering just how difficult it was to try and force an unwilling elf to go anywhere. He was a burly man, and Legolas was still recovering from the injuries he'd received earlier in the week. One would think that it would be no contest at all. Instead, he was twisting like an eel, making his opponent fight for every inch.

The dwarf took all this in as he powered toward them, strong legs covering the distance in a much shorter time than most people would give him credit for. "Elf!" In a display a contortionist would have been proud of, Legolas planted his feet, snatched the man's arm and twisted backward. Forced to go along with it or have his arm summarily broken, the man bent with him, and his head came conveniently down to a height Gimli could easily reach. The impact of his gloved fist reverberated up his arm and into his shoulder, but he was largely unconcerned. The same could not be said for the attacker. He dropped like a stone.

Legolas released the man's arm and regained his full height, breathing heavily. His eyes were wild and his light hair loose from its simple binding. Teeth bared in a snarl that set Gimli's nerves on edge, he glared down at the limp form and appeared to seriously consider kicking it. Gimli watched, somewhat discomfited. In all the time he'd known the elf, he was hard pressed to remember a time when he'd seen the affable creature so angry. It did not sit well with him.

A long tense second passed. The elf let out his breath in a long exhale and turned away. The malicious air dissipated. "Thank you for your assistance, _mellon-nin_."

"Nothing I haven't done before," Gimli assured him, striving for a lighter tone. "Though I thought it would be longer than several hours before you needed my help. This must be a new record."

"Remind me to let you speak to Aragorn about it one day. He will set you straight on all such 'record's. He has an uncanny memory for such things." The smooth voice did not quite attain affectionate exasperation. "He will want to know about _this_ in any case. Help me get him up."

The dwarf agreed, bending down to slap none-too gently at the man's cheeks. It wouldn't do to go dragging him through the city unconscious. At least, he thought with a sigh, it wouldn't do for an elf and a dwarf to do so. Who knew what they might be accused of. Though he was a dwarf and therefore somewhat removed from the political world by nature, he wasn't unaware of the rising distrust Men sported toward his kind and the Elves. He didn't think it was all encompassing as of yet, but he would rather not run the risk. He'd already saved the elf once today.

Legolas straightened his clothes and ran his fingers through his hair to get himself back in a semblance of propriety. Not fooled for an instant, his companion watched out of the corner of his eye and thought that the elf was not merely fixing his appearance but using it as a front for reasserting a bit of good temper.

Perhaps it had not worked entirely. When the attacker groaned and tried to pull away from Gimli's ministrations, he bent and hissed, "We are going to take you for a stroll. I suggest that you do your very best to remain calm and follow any orders given to you," in a tone so ominous that the dazed man nodded fuzzily and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet without a struggle.

They exited the alley a moment later, where the sun warmed the stones and the air alike. Under different circumstances, the pair would have stopped to admire the stretching view over the plains. Instead, they hustled onward and upward, the unfortunate man between them and watched every step of the way. People paused in their daily lives to watch the odd trio go past, one very pale and wobbling with every step, the elf and dwarf with grim faces set. Each of the latter had a firm hold on one of the man's arms. Whether they were escorting him or keeping him from collapse was not immediately clear, and by the time it occurred to the watcher that it may have been a combination of the two, the three of them had disappeared into the bustle of the crowd.

Word spread quickly, or rather, the guards of the city moved quickly. By the time Legolas, Gimli, and their 'prisoner' arrived at the seventh tier Aragorn was waiting for them, arms folded and eyes narrowed.

"There's a bit of refuse here that needs attention," Gimli huffed, pulling the man to a stop. Still dazed, wits clearly addled, he didn't appear to recognize the King at all.

"I know that you would not usually sink so low as to take up affairs over such things," the elf said calmly, slim fingers pinching the back of his attacker's neck and pressing down so that the man bowed. "However, this particular piece seems to think it a good idea to go around attacking royalty."

Storm clouds gathered over Aragorn's brow. With a gesture, two guards stepped forward to take Legolas and Gimli's places. "Bring him along." Turning on his heel, he stalked toward the Tower of Ecthelion, wherein his throne room resided and judgments were passed. The guards instantly followed, and Legolas and Gimli brought up the rear. The dwarf matched his companion's pace easily, and so it was that he noticed just how stiffly Legolas was moving.

He placed a hand on the elf's arm and drew him to a gentle halt just outside of the doors. "Are you hurt, lad?"

It took a moment for his friend to respond, during which time his mind whirled through all sorts of possibilities of the way the struggle might have injured the prince, or reopened some of his older wounds. But eventually, "No, Gimli. I am not injured. I am just very angry."

"You have every right to be, lad. No one can deny that."

Legolas whirled, hair arcing up behind him as he turned, and for a moment Gimli thought that the prince would simply walk away. But he turned again almost instantly, emotion flaring in his blue eyes. "I am tired of being attacked. I do not wish to be constantly on alert for the next person to hold a blade to my throat. These persistent attempts wear on me. I want to be able to _do_ something about this!"

"We all do. Aragorn will help. But we must do it the right way." Even as he uttered the words, the dwarf knew it was not what Legolas had wanted to hear. Gloin had often told his son that woodelves were more likely to show their emotions than their Noldor kindred. Gimli had never disputed the fact; _his_ particular woodelf (not that he'd ever say that term aloud, thank you) was never one to hide his feelings away, especially once you knew him better. Legolas was such a light-hearted person though; it was easy to forget that some emotions were more negative than others.

"I know that. Aragorn will do whatever he can, he always does. I trust that we will be able to learn where these attacks are coming from. I will always trust in him." About to go on, probably on a more antagonistic route, he was cut off by a firm voice from the doors.

"Thank you, Legolas." The pair turned to see the King standing there, arms crossed as he regarded them with his piercing grey eyes. "I know it's frustrating. And it's not fair to you. Not in any sense of the word. But it will end. I won't stand for anything less." His hand landed gently on the elf's shoulders, mindful of the healing burns. "_Gweston_."

After a moment, the elf returned the gesture. "_Hannon le_."

"Let's get this over with," Gimli said enthusiastically. Much to his relief, most of the anger had faded from his friend's manner. Hopefully they would be able to get to the bottom of this before it had a chance to reappear.

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"He's gone."

"He's _what_?" Hilden's face began to turn red. As he had already been rather pink from the amount of alcohol he had consumed already, he didn't actually have all that far to go.

"Don't yell at me about it," his subordinate groused. "Your cousin. I have nothing to do with him."

Hilden resisted the urge to drop his forehead to the table. "Just… tell me what happened. _Without_ the attitude."

"Word is that he was following the elf and made a move to bring him in. He wasn't doing too badly at it either, until the dwarf came into it."

"The dwarf? Who ever said anything about a _dwarf_?"

In the corner, removed from the current conversation and sifting over a sheaf of old papers, Jorn rolled his eyes. There was something to be said, he mused, for that old saying, _Know thine enemy_. In this case, even listening to some of the stories about the Fellowship in the taverns would have been helpful: the tales frequently mentioned the friendship of Legolas of Mirkwood, and Gimli son of Gloin.

"Point being, your cousin was last seen being hauled up to the Tower for judgment." Prudently then, the messenger turned on the spot and darted into the next room before his leader could come to the realization that he could do nothing about the situation other than to throw something.

Almost casually, Jorn ducked and the hurled paperweight shattered against the wall just above his head. Once upon a time, he would have been angry enough to start a fight, but his temper had cooled since becoming involved with Hilden's little gang. Well, perhaps not a 'little' gang, there were well over thirty of them that came and went at all hours. Some of them were even fairly competent. Jorn thought that some of them might actually come in handy one day, sooner than any of them suspected.

Hilden, on the other hand, was far from competent. How he'd ever risen this far was unfathomable. He _was_ good for something though. His actions, often drunken and fueled by furious temper showed the Jorn the virtues of remaining calm and thinking his plans through.

A madman the younger Gondorian might have been, a stupid madman was something he was not. He wanted power, yes. Recognition. He wanted to be _remembered_. He would do almost anything to achieve it. Even to the point of doing something drastic. The elf may have been Hilden's main concern, but the royal brat had little effect on Jorn. No, Jorn had something far bigger in mind.

They would remember him. He would see to it.

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"Enough. We will leave off for today."

The guards came forward to encase the man's wrists in shackles. Pale, sweating, but otherwise triumphant, he was lead to the door and out. He would spend the night in a cell on the fourth tier. Four sets of eyes watched him go, all troubled.

"I am sorry, Legolas."

The elf shook his head. "There is nothing to be sorry for. If he will not talk about who put him up to it, you cannot do anything about it."

Aragorn's advisor, portly Milast, agreed. "Wise words, Prince Legolas, though I do wish that we could have settled something. I'd like to offer an apology of behalf of the city for the treatment bestowed upon you thus far."

A brief smile crossed the elf's face, lighting his features. "Thank you, but it is not necessary. I know that this is in no way reflective of the majority of the city." Rising from the chair, he rolled his shoulders, much like someone trying to shrug a weight off their back. If he was disappointed that his attacker had only given his name and nothing else, it did not show. "However, I may take offense if this impromptu meeting robs me of the dinner prepared by your skilled chefs."

They turned to regard the clock in some surprise. Three hours they had been asking young Gideon Roth about the sudden interest in the resident elf prince. Three hours and nothing learned. Suddenly, the idea of food sounded wonderful. "All right," Aragorn decided. "Half an hour to clean up and refresh ourselves, and we'll see about supper." A gleam entered his eyes. "Gimli, you will be able to meet Eldarion. Would you like to hold him?"

"Er…" Taken aback by the sudden change of subject and the light laughter of the elf, Gimli scrambled for words. His experience with small children was limited. His experience with proud fathers was almost more so. He wasn't sure which prospect unnerved him more.

"He really isn't so frightening," Legolas calmly assured him. "He is just very small. Although," and his eyes brightened in a way that meant mischief, "I daresay he will soon be taller than _you_. Not that that is very difficult…" He dodged the half-hearted swipe easily enough and was out the door in a moment, the grumbling dwarf close behind him.

Aragorn watched them go, glad to see that the afternoon's events had not put a permanent damper of his friend's mood. He'd heard more of the elf's small outburst earlier in the afternoon than he had let on, and he worried. Not just for his friend's safety, but for fear of seeing that wonderful ebullient spirit dampened. Anger warred for dominance as well; not only was he angry that his friend was being targeted, he was angry that it should be people in his city who were behind it.

The King took immense pride in Gondor. He'd been proud to fight beside them in the War. That some of his people, his subjects, his _friends,_ would be involved in these acts made his blood boil. How dare they? They disgraced themselves. They disgraced him. His eyes burned into the empty chair that had until recently held the man who could give them information.

"Your Majesty?" Milast's voice startled him from his musings. "It would not do to keep them waiting."

"I'm coming." Still staring, he rose from his throne with an easy grace that gave away his former position of a Ranger. "I will make this right," he swore under his breath. "As King and your friend, I vow this. _Gweston, mellon-nin_."

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**AN: **_Gweston- _I promise

So we have it, if a little shorter than my usual standards. Things are about to pick up, and yes I _am_ including updates in that generalization. This _will_ be finished, in perhaps six chapters or so. Maybe a little less. The end is in sight. Thank you to all who have stuck with me thus far, and welcome to any new readers. See you in a week. :-)


	10. Trouble Afoot

**Disclaimer: **Nothing to see here folks. They aren't mine. Move along, move along.

**AN:** Apparently, I do my best fanfiction work when I have many other things to do and really should not be working on it at all. However, one of my original short stories was recently selected for publication, so in order to keep from exploding I decided to channel my happiness into an update. And, you know, rather a lot of squee-ing and babbling and bouncing, and all those other fun actions. But I digress. And so we go.

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A shriek rent the air. No one paid particular attention. Conversation continued on as normal, if a little louder in order to be heard over the continuing squeals.

"Aragorn."

The former Ranger ignored the plea with relative ease. His attention remained firmly and stubbornly on his wife, who was speaking with Legolas in Elvish. The light of the candles, enough to make anyone seem to possess a dusky-complexion, had no effect on her smooth skin. Rather it seemed to highlight the subtle angles of her bones, making her appear very fragile. Almost enough so that if he merely _touched _her—

"_Aragorn_."

Oh- and the way the light spangled on her dark hair, caressing the soft waves—

Another shriek. "_Strider!_" The deep baritone rolled the r's even more so than usual in irritation. This, combined with the old moniker, finally caused Aragorn to snicker and break his façade.

"What is it, Gimli?"

The dwarf looked at him in a manner that on anyone else could have been called petulant. He'd been tasked (however nervous and unwilling) with the entertainment of Eldarion, and the child gurgled happily up at him from the protective cradle of his arms. Gimli might have been more willing to smile if one of those tiny fists hadn't tangled itself into his beard where it was pulling with great enthusiasm. "You _know_ what!"

Legolas did not appear to be paying any attention to the scene unfolding to his right, but a small smile lingered on his lips as he listened to Arwen's news of her brothers far to the north.

Aragorn stood in one fluid motion and deftly rescued the dwarf's beard from his son's little fingers. "I did warn you."

"You misrepresented the danger!"

He had of course done no such thing. Arwen had made a point about the dangers of the long red braids as well, but there was nothing on Arda that could convince a dwarf what was best for his beard. Nothing except perhaps Eldarion.

His son gurgled as they all looked at him, little face crinkling in a giggle. His fingers, deprived of their new toy, clenched into a fist. Baby blue eyes peered out from under long eyelashes and fixated on Aragorn's face. The former ranger felt a smile of his own rise up in answer. He would be hard pressed to name any greater feeling than that of having helped to create a life. This was his _son_, and sometimes the responsibility seemed greater than even the care of his city.

Legolas noted the soft expression and hid a smile of his own. There would be no little boy better looked after or loved than Eldarion. Catching the sheer contentment radiating off of Arwen as well, his smile broke free of its constraints. There would probably be no little boy who would be spoilt as much as Eldarion either. He himself was already wondering if Aragorn would let him teach the boy a bit of archery in a few years, after being gifted a small elven bow, of course.

A knock at the door and Aragorn stood. Undoubtedly, it was Milast, come to call him away from breakfast for another round of 'question the prisoner'. The man had been identified as Gideon Rothe, but there was nothing else that could be gleaned from him. He kept his annoyance from his features as he bent to kiss Arwen's forehead and allowed his son to inspect his finger in solemn wonder. But his mind whirled and stamped in agitation as he left the room and strode down the hall and out into the rain.

This was not how he'd hoped to repay Legolas. Two days had been by and gone, and they were no closer to discovering the nature of the attacks on his friend than they had been before. Gideon was jerked to his feet as the king entered the room, his too-thin limbs akilter and dwarfed by the shackles around his wrists and ankles. He was smiling though, the expression disarming even through the pock-marked skin and days of scruff growing on his cheeks, and Aragorn felt resignation rise. The man was not going to speak today either.

He was right. In the end, on the verge of losing his temper at the sheer uncooperative nature of the man, all that could be done was to sentence Rothe to a bare-minimum of ten years in the gaols for attacking someone of royal blood. If Legolas or his father wished to have the sentence extended, they were well within their rights. He was granted only a vague sense of satisfaction at seeing the damned smile drop away as Gideon was summarily escorted out of the room.

Perhaps once word got out how such an attack would be handled there would be less chances of it happening.

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Hilden stared blearily at the brandy just out of reach. "We need to get that royal brat out of the way," he said, or rather, slurred. "Won' get 'way with this…" He wished briefly that the bottle was a little closer. It did not occur to him that if he merely straightened his arm further his fingers would be able to fully close around the base of the bottle.

No one paid him any attention. The bar was mostly empty at this time of morning, and those who _were_ around were not as interested in the drunken ramblings as they were in what Jorn was currently telling them. In fact, no one had been paying Hilden any attention for the past two days. The man was constantly inebriated, so much so that it would come to no surprise if he began sweating liquor. It was not even noon and there he sat with four empty mugs and half a bottle of brandy littering his table.

Jorn hadn't questioned the reasoning behind the bender. He'd taken the opportunity to clearly gauge the loyalties of the men, and he was pleasantly surprised by his results. There were seven of them that outright stated they would be willing to do anything he asked of them. Of the remaining men, a dozen would still back Hilden if it came down to it, and the other nine were on the verge of siding with the younger, more ambitious man. He was not particularly worried about them, confident that his plan to would ricochet him to the top. They would follow him. They _would_.

"I think the time's come to make ourselves known," he said. "They don't know what's about to hit them."

The seven loyal men shifted on their barstools in anticipation. Save Hilden, currently babbling about arrows and rear ends, they were the only ones in the bar. The building itself was old and clearly about to collapse in on itself. Jorn and Hilden had pooled their resources to buy it in the aftermath of the War, but had never really gotten around to fixing the damage done to it when the gates fell. The place had held up well thus far though and provided a tidy little income. Jorn handled the bar and the ordering of the alcohol, as he did most everything else, and the old meeting hall flourished.

"Well?" one demanded impatiently when it appeared no response was to be forthcoming.

The young Gondorian's lips curved up in a smile, revealing a gap between his front teeth that only served to make him look boyish. "We want recognition. We want to be _noticed_, _known_. We deserve to have a reputation that stands out."

Murmurs of agreement.

"That's why," and here he paused to meet everyone's eyes individually, so that they could see the confidence that boiled there, "That's why we're going to take the King's son."

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Legolas chuckled. Then he side-stepped, neatly avoiding the jab to the shoulder.

His dwarf companion huffed through his beard. The red strands were finally put back to rights after Eldarion had made a snatch for them twice more. Unfortunately for Gimli, Legolas kept catching him stroking the long braids protectively, which always sent him into a brief fit of undignified laughter. "It's _not_ funny."

"Oh yes," the elf grinned. "Yes, it is."

He paused then to engage in a conversation with a silk merchant, and Gimli was struck by the sudden urge to give a good tug to the long blond braid that dangled to enticingly before his eyes. He suppressed the childish urge with great difficulty.

The rain had somewhat abated after lunch and the pair had taken to the streets despite the light mist that still fell. The cobblestones were slick with water and mud, making more than one person skid wildly and flail until their balance was regained. The elf of course made no such slips, even saving one elderly woman's hip from a harsh landing. Not that Gimli was sliding all over the place either, he was holding his own with no small amount of dignity.

"I found your mark on the gates," Legolas said off-handedly as he returned to the dwarf's side.

"Ha! You—" and he would have gone on to make much mockery of Legolas's observational skills if the elf's lips hadn't pressed themselves into a thin line and his eyes went flat. "What?" He had to scramble to follow the sudden long strides and his skin pricked as he realized that his friend was headed straight for a member of the city guard. Praying that another fight was not going to break out, he caught up just in time to see the elf bow.

"Dail."

The man looked taken-aback for only a moment before recognition sparked in his tired eyes. "Prince Legolas. How may I help you?"

If Legolas was miffed that a bow was not given to him in return, he didn't show it. "I wished to offer my condolences on the loss of your brother. He was a good man."

"Yes, he was." Sorrow crossed the man's strong face. "I wish we knew more about what happened."

Gimli huffed again, and Legolas mentally shook himself. "I'm sorry, Dail, this is Gimli, son of Gloin. Gimli, this is one of the men who rode out after me onto the plains. His brother was killed a week ago." The dwarf held out a hand and was pleased with the strong handshake he received in return.

"I've heard a lot about you in the taverns, Master Gimli. All complimentary, of course."

"It had better be," Gimli said, earning a startled chuckle from the guard. "I'd hate to have to go around correcting everyone."

"He would do it too, make no mistake." Legolas's smile was fond. He didn't fool the dwarf though: Gimli knew if it came to it, he'd have a companion helping him set the record straight.

The conversation quickly dropped back into a somber tone, Gimli offering his own sympathies and Legolas asking about compensations and wishing the whole family good luck and good health. They moved on five minutes later, after securing a promise from Dail that he would meet them for drinks in a week's time.

"He seems a good sort."

"He is. His brother was too." The elf sighed. "Do you know, I played a prank on them the first time I met them? I pretended that I was angry at them for not coming to my aid sooner. We laughed about it, but now I wish that I had not said it even in jest."

Discomfited, Gimli looked up at the elf and the solemn air that surrounded him. "I'm sure that they didn't take it personally."

"They didn't. But I still—" He broke off as his friend's gloved hand landed on his forearm.

"Let it go, lad. What's done is done, and you cannot change anything about it now. They accepted it in good humour and moved on. You should do the same. Move on."

Another sigh, but the slender shoulders straightened and the blue eyes regained some of that stubborn spark. "Wise words from a good friend. Thank you, Gimli."

"Don't go spreading it around," Gimli grumbled.

A smile appeared and the sun itself might have peeked out of the heavy clouds. "I shan't. Word might get back to my father that a dwarf had good advice. I fear he would drop dead from the shock."

Gimli retorted sharply and they wandered down the street, engaged in banter so biting that some folk actually stopped to stare.

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It was very late (or very early, depending on one's view) but Jorn was not in the least bit tired. Rather, he was thrumming with pent-up energy and elation. His plan, mad as it was, was working.

He'd chosen to slip in under the cover of deep night, just five hours into the new day. His reasoning, as explained to some of his more skeptical followers, was simple: not only would the dark mask their movements, but it was also the time when the king's guards switched shifts. Far easier for several men to slip inside and lose themselves in the shuffle. Another thing, he thought as he gleefully downed a man from behind, was that no one was expecting someone to have the sheer nerve to attempt what he was doing. It was a time of peace and prosperity, and Gondor was flourishing under Aragorn's reign. No one would see this coming.

He peered in all the doors he passed, unsure which one actually contained the little heir. They did not creak as he swung them open and closed, and he thought that there was some sort of humour that such a small detail for the comfort of a king would be the very thing that allowed unwanted visitors such easy access to the rooms beyond. He liked all of his door hinges to be ungreased for that very reason: it was very handy to know exactly when someone was entering his room.

Two empty bedrooms and three more unconscious guards later he found the nursery. The walls glowed pale green in his lantern light, and the elaborate cradle looked almost otherworldly in the flickering light. His heart pounded in his temples and his mouth went dry. He motioned for his three cohorts to remain at the door as he padded silently across the room. If luck was with him, the little brat would be in the cradle instead of sleeping between his two parents. Everything depended on luck. If this attempt failed, they would never get another chance at this.

He was so expecting the crib to be empty, that his luck had run out, he nearly didn't see the little bundle of cloth with a tuft of dark hair poking out the top. The tiny prince was deeply asleep, an arm flung carelessly up over his head. Jorn smiled.

He shot a glance over his shoulder at the double doors he assumed led to the royal bedchamber. This was to be the trickiest part of all. To make a single noise, to rouse the baby and elicit so much as a whimper would be devastating. The king was a former ranger with senses honed to a razor's edge, the queen an elf. He had no doubt that if he so much as _breathed_ too heavily he would have two very angry parents with access to very sharp weapons on his hands.

Recalling all his years as an older brother, he reached into the crib and slid his hands under Eldarion's head and body. His skin tingled. He was touching _royalty_. Ever so carefully, he lifted, bringing the blanket up too, and cradled the baby against his chest. Eldarion fussed, eyes squinching tighter and jaw dropping. Jorn froze in sudden terror, but the prince merely yawned and slipped back into sleep without much fanfare.

He retreated to the hall and jerked his head toward the exit. They had to leave _now_, every second they tarried their chances of discovery grew more likely. "Jorn," murmured one of the men as they stepped into the cool night air, "are you _sure _this is a good idea? I don't—"

"Shut your mouth, Kynder," Jorn hissed, furious that he had to remind them of the need for silence. They continued on. Passing the guest house, the young leader let out a breath, began to think that they were going to get out of this, to make a name for themselves. He didn't much care whether the image was good or bad. People would remember him either way. And then, someone tripped over an unconscious guard and swore loud enough to wake the dead.

Jorn swung about. "Rade, you _imbecile_! Get up, you idiot, get _up_!"

Rade was flushing enough to see even in the dim light of the lantern. "Sorry," he mumbled through a split lip oozing blood. "Didn' see 'im."

Eldarion's weight was growing heavier by the second and paranoia crept in to make itself at home right in the back of his skull. Jorn opened his mouth to curse the boy and his lineage to come for three generations when the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up.

A voice, lilting in the distinct elven accent and deadly enough to drain blood at ten paces. "Put him down."

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**AN:** Thank you very much to those who reviewed the last chapter. There are only five chapters and an epilogue left to go. Happy Spring Break to everyone who has one sometime this month or next! Don't do anything I wouldn't do. (And I would do quite a lot…)


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